Evolutionary
by sugarbucket
Summary: Falling in love for the first time is really not easy when you're Sherlock. John would never be interested anyway, Sherlock himself is broken and unstable from events post-Reichenback. Enemies are gathering, darkness is looming and a new threat is circling like a shark. Be warned, this is dark in places. Warning: non-con, slash, drug use, violence and language. Stay with me.
1. Chapter 1: A Small Observation

_Disclaimer: Tragically, nothing is mine except for the plot and angst-ridden situations I intend to plonk these poor boys into. _

_Do I have to warn for slash in this fandom? In any fandom, really? Surely that's slightly oxymoronic?_

_Warnings for: Slash, violence, swearing, non-con and a boatload of angst. _

* * *

**-Evolutionary-**

**-Chapter One: A Small Observation-**

As with most phenomenon of substance and endurance, this particular one happened gradually and quite without initial warning. It was reminiscent of the process of evolution, perhaps. No, definitely. Evolution had been gradual, progressive, unhurried. That was the best...but wait, evolution was subject to the occasional burst of sudden change out of nowhere. Rare though they were, without them there could be no significant change and ultimately no evolution.

Well, that was an unsatisfying train of thought. Now I would have to spend all night arranging and compartmentalising it until it was neat and orderly. How intensely annoying; a smudge of dirt on the previously immaculate floor of my mind palace. God damn it, I'd just cleaned that. The previous smudge had taken weeks, if not months to remove all lingering traces of it's unpleasantness.

"Sherlock?"

I looked up sharply, brought back to the warm safety of 221b with a snap. I blinked once and saw John peering curiously at me.

"Hmm?" I asked with as little inflection as I could get away with, There was always a good possibility John had been in the midst of asking me a question or telling me something, and I had drifted off. It was rare but it did happen. Like evolutionary leap frogging. But what was the genuine cause of such bursts through an otherwise progressive status quo?

"You're doing it again."

Damn. "I am not."

"Do you even know what I'm referring to?" he asked, amused.

"Whatever it was, I'm certain I wasn't doing it."

"You were talking to me and then you stopped mid sentence and drifted off. For two minutes," he added, glancing at his watch. _Traser H3 Classic Chronograph; worn constantly, five years old, damaged twice and repaired – sentimental value. _"You do that sometimes."

"I do?" I asked, non-committally. My mind was still buzzing irritably at the smudge. Also I'd left the previous train of though broken down on it's tracks, waiting for inspection. They would start to pile up soon unless I gave it the necessary attention. "Seems highly out of character."

"Yes," John said quietly. "It does."

His tone pulled at my attention, almost magnetically. _Something's wrong with John – find out what it is now and fix it so he can be John again, but louder. _

Only I had no idea what to say. Instead I looked at him expectantly, with what I hoped was an expression that conveyed my interest. He stared at me for a moment before he smiled and shook his head.

"Ah well, never a dull moment I guess. Tea?" He got up without waiting for my answer and I watched him go to the kitchen. Part of me curious in a detached, clinical way at what had just happened. The other part of me scolding that part for being stupid and forgetful.

How could I have forgotten what I had just discovered only minutes ago, when I had suddenly drifted off?

I was in love with my flat mate. I had fallen in love with John Watson and I had no clue what to do about it.

* * *

OK, so I wasn't that stupid. I knew what I _should_ do. I had seen the occasional (terrible) romance film. I should tell him. Be hopeful. Phrase it carefully. Maybe do so in a life or death situation. I should maybe even be brave and try to touch his hand or even his face...my God his face, I loved his face. All the emotions reflected there that were so _lacking_ in every other dull face I saw a million times a day in the real world. All the confidence and mystery and things I had no experience with. All the smiles and kindness and not-taking-my-crap when I was mischievous and bored. Patience. Interest. Endurance. These were foreign qualities to me in people I had come to know. Even Lestrade, who was arguably much more tolerable than most other humans, could barely hold a candle to John.

Hold a candle, such a strange turn of phrase. My brain helpfully provided me with the information that it was first mentioned in _William Norris's_ '_No New Thing'_ and that it referred to the apprentices who's sole job it was to hold candles up for the more experienced workmen to be able to see. One who could not even hold his candle, was a failure indeed. In retrospect, that seemed a little harsh; Lestrade was competent in his way and...damn it.

Digressing again. But it had only lasted a second, thankfully and John seemed not to have noticed this time. He was taking a look at the dead body on the slab while Molly chatted away nervously beside me. She was wearing a new perfume; it stuck in my throat, unpleasantly. I had never liked the smell of women's perfume. Too many chemicals, to much illusion. Though I hadn't paid much attention to what she was saying, I easily deduced that she was seeing someone new and she was worried that she wasn't good enough for him because he was a published writer. It took nothing less than a glance at her trembling fingers, the bulge of a hardback book in her jacket pocket and the false smile in her laugh to come up with that.

Even so, it was more difficult than it should have been; I sensed my attention was not properly focused. John was talking, albeit to himself, and it was very distracting. His notes were broad, but accurate and he occasionally had some genuine insight into the accidental murder of this woman; a very high class escort with a discreet and contained drug habit. I was momentarily content to allow him to take the reigns. It was fascinating to see him at work, to see his confidence rising and his tone growing stronger and deeper. The Doctor in John thrilled to be of service.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" Molly asked, mildly indignant. Not fully indignant, she was too shy even although she had been my most trusted confidant at one point.

"You have nothing to fear from a writer, he has nothing but respect for your work which he could never do himself, but wishes he could. As a writer, he can only dream of the experiences you embrace every day. He'll want to channel your bravery and experience and adore you when you open up to him," I said casually, not taking my eyes off John. As expected, he stopped what he was doing and turned to me with an expression of surprise and approval. Actually, more like surprised approval. Lestrade looked at me like I'd just announced I was pregnant and Molly blinked rapidly and looked around like she thought she'd slipped into a parallel universe.

A strange warm feeling blossomed in the pit of my stomach and I had to actually work to conceal a smile. It was ridiculously pleasant to see John looking at me like that. It was making me want to _do things_. _(Things? What things? Those stupid romance films always faded to black before I could take notes! The internet was deeply unhelpful and intensely disturbing. I had given up trying to utilise that tool for my research a long time ago.)_

The moment passed.

"Well, uh...thanks very much," Molly said grinning tentatively. "Always great to have the opinion of a genius."

"The truth requires no gratitude," I said and everyone relaxed at the reappearance of my usual, brusque self. "So, Lestrade, you say you found her lying face down?"

"Yes, she was bludgeoned in the back of the head by a blunt instrument and died almost instantly. No ID and as far as we know, she's not one of the local girls."

I minutely shook my head in wonder. Despite a certain amount of well concealed fondness for Lestrade, it baffled me endlessly at how he had ever managed to land London as his area of operations.

"Of course you don't recognise her, you're not supposed to. She's a very high class and very exclusive escort; observe the clothing, worn only once and purchased less than twenty four hours ago. The shoes are also new, but have been worn a few times – barely scuffed at all though, not much walking in her profession – note the broken heel, that's important. Look at _what_ she's wearing. The outfit of the wife of a powerful man, girlfriend at least but no ring, no sign of jewellery that's not rented. She owns nothing that she's wearing. Everything is an outfit, a costume."

Lestrade looked like he was biting down a, "_Hang on a minute!"_ Molly was listening intently. John gave me a questioning look.

"The hair?"

I nodded, understanding immediately. "Perfectly arranged, but then pulled out of it's style. He was bigger than she was, stronger and without the patience or foresight of an older man. He got drunk, lustful and then forceful. He grabbed her by the hair, tried to make her kiss him. Observe her smudged lipstick smearing dramatically to the left. She dragged her face away, causing the smudge."

"And then he killed her?" Lestrade said, watching me to see if I agreed.

"Or she?" Molly questioned.

"Definitely a he. This woman was smart, careful and not without the ability to take care of herself to some extent. Hence the small half formed bruise on her knee. She kneed him hard after he tried to kiss her. Probably aiming for the groin, but he swerved, causing the small bruise."

"She could have fallen to her knees," Lestrade suggested.

"The other knee is intact. Definitely a male _because_ she was aiming for his groin. Definitely a male because he overpowered her. She wore the tacky dress, the overblown jewellery, the lipstick. All of it screams desperate, rich male."

"But you said young?"

"Yes. Strong, tall and young."

John frowned. "Why would he even need an escort? Surely if he's loaded, built and young he could get someone on his own?"

I sneered a little. "He didn't want someone who chose him for who he was. He wanted someone who would do exactly what he said, when he said it. Wore what he wanted – he chose the dress, of course – and said whatever he wanted in front of all his friends."

"Right," Lestrade said, with the air of a man trying to grasp something. "So he murdered her then? Lost his temper and bludgeoned her?"

"Nope. It was an accident," I said calmly. "She shoved him backwards after the missed attempt on his groin – observe the slight darkening on the heels of her palm – but then the heel of the shoes that she was not used to because he picked them out...snapped! The heel snapped, she went down and landed on the edge of a table, possible the arm of a chair. The impact was fatal, she died almost instantly."

"Sherlock," Lestrade snapped. "You can't know for sure that he didn't push her!"

"Look at her then!" I snapped in return. "Only her lipstick and hair have been touched and interfered with. The dress is unharmed anywhere and with this flimsy material you would see any stretch or tear. He just wanted her to kiss him. He was so shocked by what happened that he didn't even try to hide the body or get rid of her. You found her in the hotel suit didn't you?"

"Well yes, but..."

"The room was booked in her name of course, complete anonymity, but he still took a huge risk. Finding him will be child's play. It was accidental. Full stop."

There was a long stretch of silence during which I'm certain Lestrade was telling himself not to ask me where to start looking. John seemed to take pity on him.

"So give us a call once you've talked to the escort agency, Greg," he said with a smile. "You won't need us for the piddly task of talking to the hotel clerks and finding out more about the escort. I'm sure they'll have all the info you need."

"Right," Lestrade said coming to life. "Will do. Thanks guys, you too Molly."

"Bye!" she said cheerfully and he left. "That was nice of you," she said to John after he was out of earshot. "He's so distracted lately with the divorce and all."

"And the affair," I added absently. "Molly, would you please do me a favour?"

She seemed reasonably shocked that I had asked so politely and waited for an answer.

"Uh...of course!" she replied. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw John cocking his head with interest.

"Do you have a UV light?"

"A UV light? You mean like a black light?"

I nodded.

"Actually, I think we do somewhere. It'll be in the supply room though, one minute!" She dashed off, almost excitedly.

"A black light?" John queried.

"A theory," I replied.

"About...?"

"The escort agency."

"Ah. How so?"

"I found one!" Molly exclaimed as she came bursting into the room waving the long, thin light. "Knew we had one somewhere." She handed it to me and I turned it on, immediately holding it close to the body. I started at the top, checking her neck, and worked down each arm until her left wrist finally showed me what I was looking for.

"A tattoo," John supplied helpfully. "In UV ink. What is it?"

"It's the mark of her agency. An eagle," I said staring at the minimalist outline of an eagle as it glowed beneath her skin. An eagle: _USA national emblem, imperial power, freedom, John the Evangelist, Greek God Zeus...no. Aigle – French, __águila – Spanish, adler – German._

_German word for eagle – adler. _

Irene Adler. Of course, just as I had suspected for some time. She really should have stayed away, though. I cleared my throat, hard;y any time had passed since I'd last spoken and no-one seemed to be on the same vein of thought I was. I decided to keep it to myself for now.

"That hotel will give Lestrade a false agency who in turn will say they've never heard of her and it'll be weeks before he finally gives up. They might find the young man, but they'll never find the agency," I said.

"Why not tell Lestrade?"

"Because he'll draw them out just enough for me to see them But not yet. Not today. Thank you Molly, indispensable as always," I said with a nod and a smile. She stuttered for a moment, perhaps unaccustomed to such benevolence.

"A-any time," she said with a wide smile.

"Bye Molly," John said with his customary friendliness. "See you soon, no doubt." I marvelled at the ease of his kindness and it's frequency. I almost envied it, but then that was just who he was. John Watson. My chest contracted oddly for a moment and I found it a little difficult to breathe. He gave me a funny look.

"Are you sure you're OK? You keep looking...ill."

"I assure you I'm quite fine," I told him.

* * *

We arrived back home together. I had never though of 221b Baker Street of home – a term so elusive and romantic to me – until John had agreed to move in with me, despite what I'm certain was an alarming first impression. Perhaps it was the simplicity of having someone to return to or spend time with. John had made all kind of adjustments to the flat after he moved in. At first I was quite violently against most of them but then after he patiently explained, (_Yes Sherlock, we do need soap! Yes Sherlock the washing machine DOES need to be fixed! Yes we definitely need two microwaves! What do you mean why? I opened it the other day and there was tongue splatter everywhere. One for body parts, one for food!) _ I realised that there was a certain elegant efficiency to his alterations. I particularly enjoyed clean towels. And real food. I had never been able to cook more than two slices of burnt toast and it was rather wonderful the first time John made a real, hot actual dinner. With chicken and everything.

So yes, it was more home now than any place had ever been, including the dreaded place I was born.

I grimaced inwardly and pushed the unpleasant memories back. The last time I had been dragged there had been well over six years ago for a monstrously forced Christmas dinner. Mycroft's fault really, he thankfully never tried again.

"Sherlock," John asked, pulling me back to reality once more. I realised I was standing in the doorway, coat still on.

"Yes?"

John was already making tea (he made wonderful tea) and was giving me another look. This one seemed much more cautious. The kind of look he'd been forced to adopt a while ago when things had been bad (_horrible, immovable smudge no matter what I use...) _and I had fallen back into old habits. He'd had to ask me questions with a carefully controlled expression. I'd tried to lie, but it was a dismal failure. He was a doctor after all, he knew the effects of drugs.

"You've been acting really...well, _more _strange than usual," he told me, pouring the hot water in to two mugs. "I've noticed that since this morning you seem incredibly distant and definitely a bit off your game."

I slipped my coat and scarf off and flung them over the back of the sofa. "How so?"

He handed me my tea. "I just said it, you're being much more distant and weird than you usually are."

"I'm always distant and weird."

He shook his head. "Not like this."

With an exaggerated roll of my eyes I asked, "Well then define the differences!"

He took a careful sip of his tea, avoiding looking at me.

"You're staring at me a lot."

Immediately, a hot blush began creeping up my neck much to my horror. My body was violently betraying me. I silently promised it no food for a week if it didn't stop, but it seemed to ignore me. I wished I hadn't removed my scarf now, it would have given me perfect cover.

Of course he looked up.

"Umm...are you...blushing?"

"No!" I snapped, and the heat decided to attack my face. "I'm...I'm getting ill, that's all. I've felt it all day and you're right, I'm off my game because I'm ill and sick and need medicines!"

John he didn't look remotely convinced. "You're not ill. I know when you're ill and oddly enough it's a rarity somehow with all the shit you put your poor body through."

'_Oh yes,'_ I thought scathingly. _'My poor body. Betraying me in every way!'_

"So," he went on sounding resigned. "It's something else. Are you using again?"

"Of course not. You'd be able to tell immediately."

"I know," he said, watching me intently. "It's just routine to ask in these scenarios." He hesitated and I knew straight away what was coming next.

"Is it...the November thing?"

Impressively, I remained seemingly impassive. "No, it's not. You know I would tell you if it was."

"Probably not," he sighed. "Then what is it, Sherlock? Something is wrong, I can see it coming off you in waves. Everyone can."

Shouldn't have been so nice to Molly. Maybe it's because I understand more of where she was coming from when she was in love with me. Gave me away though.

I could just tell him. It was be easy, save me all this lying and pointless postponing of the inevitable. I could just look at him and say, _"I've fallen in love with you, John. I love you and all I can think about is you."_

But then I imagined his reaction and it made me turn a little cold. What if he was repulsed? What if he was angry, awkward, disgusted? He had never shown the slightest inclination towards me, unless you counted that awkward and possibly misinterpreted first night we met. No, he wouldn't be any of those things. He would reject me as kindly and nicely as he could, promising we were best friends...but nothing else. Somehow, that was more unbearable than the former.

So I said, "It's nothing I can't deal with and I will, as soon as I can, I promise you, John."

"Are you going to tell me what _it_ is?"

"Nope."

He looked disappointed, hoping I would trust him as implicitly as he trusted me. If only he knew, but no – he mustn't know, bad choice, bad move, bad consequences disguised as normalcy. "As is your choice, Sherlock. But I'm always here if you need to talk."

I gave him a rare, genuine smile. "I know, John. I know."

* * *

_November_.

_Every scenario I had gone through in my mind completely abandoned me as I was faced with the unexpected. Rare, to be confronted by something I had not even considered, let alone planned for. It was strange, reduced me to an almost childlike state of confusion and terror. _

_It was not supposed to happen like this. Not in a million years. _

_I had barely escaped with my life and certainly not in one piece. It had been the final location of Moriarty's empire, the last outpost of all that stood between my return to life, to Baker Street and to John. I had badly miscalculated; a result, perhaps, of so many months without sleep, regular food. More likely the feverish certainty that _this_ was the final chore to be done before going home to John. Either way, I was ill prepared and they captured me. _

_I was their captive for four months. They were spectacularly angry with me for what I had done to their friends, their boss. Their way of life. They had a long time to make me pay. _

_By the time I escaped, I was half dead and halfway to wishing I was fully so. I killed every last one of them, the final man died in the most obscene fashion, I had nothing left but my thumbs and his wide, inviting eye sockets. They were all dead and I was on the brink of losing what little sanity I had left. _

_My plan had been to go to John, for as long as I could remember, but when it was done I found that the last four months had destroyed most of what John would recognise. I vaguely recall that I chose to leave England, to hide away and leave him to his quieter, safer life. _

_And yet somehow, he was in Sunderland that day. He was there for some Godforsaken medical conference thing, one of those tiresome weekend excursions. He was obviously trying to get away from London, away from everything. _

_I was just going to go to a hotel, that was all. Lay on a bed, sleep for a week, heal if possible. That was all I wanted. _

_It was like it was meant to be. _

_He was _there_, standing right outside the hotel with a fake smile plastered on his worn, pale face as he chatted impressively to some middle aged woman wearing a knitted jumper with a cat on it. I was already out of the cab, having thrown too much money at the driver by way of an apology for the blood on his seats. _

_I looked up and _there he was, looking right at me.

_At first he didn't even look shocked, just a little bit sad. Then fond, then faintly agonised and he turned back to cat lady. I realised he thought he was hallucinating and it was clearly not the first time. I stood there, unable to move or breathe, moments away from collapsing. I couldn't move. _

_He frowned slightly, still not looking at me but now seeing me out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head a little. The frown deepened and now cat lady was looking at me too, her mouth wide. John looked at her and then at me, back and forth a few times before his frown vanished and he went completely blank. _

_My legs were trembling with the effort of standing, I blinked the blood out of my eyes and struggled to breathe with cracked ribs. _

_The blank look continued, he didn't seem to understand at all, so much so that his brain seemed to have given up. _

"_John," I gasped and his mouth opened, his whole face coming to life in the most terrifying expression of shock I had ever seen. It was the last thing I saw before I passed out._

* * *

"All right, I give up. How bad is it?" he asked, without looking at me. We were side by side, watching mind numbing Saturday night TV, eating deliciously unhealthy Chinese food.

I viciously stabbed a piece of deep fried squid. "That's a rather broad question, John," I informed him loftily. "To what precisely are you referring? Global warming? The threat of imminent war with the East? Christmas dinner with your sister?"

"Whatever is going on in your head," he replied calmly, eating his chow mein with a finesse that I envied. "It must be pretty bad, you haven't made a single comment about _Britain's Got __Talent. _There was a man dancing with a painted nun head and you didn't say a word."

"Maybe I was engrossed," I said but without inflection. I knew he would easily counter it and then demand that I be fully honest.

He never disappointed me. "Absolute crap. If you don't tell me what's happening then I'm calling Mycroft and asking him to stay the night."

An empty threat mostly, but it showed his determination and need to know.

I coughed. "I was thinking about November."

Silence. "I knew it."

"Then why ask?"

"Because it's what humans do, Sherlock. They care enough to ask." He paused, considering his words. "What specifically were you thinking of?"

"You."

"Ah. Well. I was a prick."

I smiled. "Hardly."

"A bit."

* * *

_November. _

_When I opened my eyes again, I was in a soft, warm bed. I was clean (how?) and in pain, but my wounds were tended to (how?) and I was wearing crisp, previously unworn pyjamas. _

_The how transformed into John as soon as memory returned. I felt immediately sick, haunted by that look on his face. The horror of just _bumping into him, _like it was a random accident. _

_I sat up very slowly, agony flooding my chest first; the cracked ribs seemed to still be cracked. Everything else followed, all the other pains from every other horror that had been done to me. Suddenly so nauseous that I actually felt bile rise up in my throat, I realised that John might have examined me thoroughly. I was in pyjamas after all and completely clean. He would know then that I had been repeatedly raped. It was too much to bear, too much to cope with. This was never any one of my plans. Never. _

_Which was of course when I realised he was sitting directly to my left, watching me. _

_I couldn't even look at him. I stared blindly down at my hands, watching them wring together and grasp at the pale, weak flesh. _

"_How do you feel?" he asked, the professional doctor. Not John at all. _

_I nodded, unable to speak. I hoped he would take it as the yes it was intended to be. _

"_Are you sufficiently out of danger that you could go to hospital?" Another clinical question, not something my John would say. _

_I wanted to lie; the last thing I wanted was hospital. Mycroft making sure I got the best treatment, the best post traumatic therapist. He would pity me, look at me delicately. Know what had been done to me. _

_But I couldn't lie to John any more. I nodded again. _

_Silence for a minute and then, "You did it to protect me," he said, almost to himself. "I know that. I know that's why you did it. To keep me and Mrs Hudson and Greg alive. I know that."_

_I grimaced, already knowing where this information had come from. Damn my brother. _

"_You faked your own death and then went deep underground to root out and kill every last one of Moriarty's crew," he said, sounding horribly calm. "You did it for me."_

_I managed a small nod. _

_He let out a bitter and almost cruel laugh. It made my skin crawl. _

"_You expect me to be grateful, I suppose? Swoon and fall over myself to thank you? Yes, of course you do. You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"_

_He stood up from the chair and I almost looked at him. _

"_Well I'm not grateful. I'm not thankful. I don't even applaud you for trying," he spat. "You think because you're hurt and broken that it somehow makes up for what you did to me?"_

"_No," I whispered. "No."_

"_Oh but you do! I can see it, Sherlock. I can see how you think you're the little martyr, all banged up and injured! You want me to just take care of you? Be thankful just to have you back in my life again? Well I'm **not**! I was just starting to move past all...all of this and then you pull up outside a fucking conference and THERE YOU ARE!"_

_He was panting, red faced and more furious than I had ever seen him. _

"_Back in my life as if nothing had ever happened. You died, Sherlock. I grieved, I cried...I lost part of who I was when you fell. When you died. You're dead to me still."_

_He left the room, slamming the door as hard as he could._

* * *

"You were not a prick."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, you were hardly the best judge at the time. You were barely coherent."

I watched him carefully as he looked down at his food, fleeting agony tearing through him only for a moment. I knew how terrible he felt, even now almost eight months on. There was a tremor in his hand. I wanted to reach out and take it, hold it in my own and stroke the distressed flesh. Make it better, somehow. The impulse was brand new and utterly terrifying. I had no idea if this impulse should be obeyed or ignored. I decided against obeying it and went back to pretending to watch the TV.

"Why were you...um, why were you thinking about me?" John asked after a few minutes.

_Because you're all I think about now. You're filling my mind, making me delirious with need to touch you, tell you how I feel. You are all I see, all I know. _

I shrugged. "Random memory."

"Yes but what specifically about me were you thinking about?"

Ah. The minefield of human emotions and the expectations that came with them. As usual, I felt lost and utterly confused in such unfamiliar territory. But he was looking at me in earnest, waiting for an earnest answer and although I could think of a few things (lies) to say to get him off my back about it, they all stuck in my throat.

"It's just that it still amazes me that you forgave me."

John laughed self deprecatingly. "After my pathetic little tantrum you mean? Not exactly extravagant kindness."

"You could have left me."

He took another bite of his rapidly cooling food and very quietly said, "I wouldn't know how."

The silence resumed momentarily, during which time I could feel John building up to something that I probably wouldn't like. Already anticipating exactly what this would be about, I winced inwardly and waited for him to find his words.

"Sherlock, I know you don't want to talk about it, but please just know that when and if you do...I am always here. I mean I really want you to talk about it, we never really did and I know it's because of how I acted when you first came back. But like I said, I was a prick and I couldn't regret my actions any more if I tried. All I'm saying is that I'm ready when you are."

He suspected, I knew it. I had never told him the full extent of my injuries from that four month period, let alone the abuse I suffered. Despite what I had originally thought, John had not been the one to tend to my injuries. Mycroft had apparently been searching for me all those months and upon finding me, he had flown up North with the best medical team he could find at such short notice. John hadn't even been in the room. Mycroft knew, of course. That was bad enough. I couldn't bear the thought of John knowing.

He had tried to make me talk about it after he had calmed down, immediately overwhelmed by terrible (and unnecessary) guilt, but I had point blank refused.

"There is little point delving into the past." He looked disappointed again, but nodded as though expecting it. "I appreciate the sentiment though," I added softly.

He froze, hand mid air with a prawn balancing delicately on his fork.

"You...appreciate the sentiment?" he echoed, sounding baffled. "Sherlock, since when do you appreciate any kind of sentiment?"

There was absolutely no way of answering that without giving everything away and making myself look like a complete moron. Instead, I looked at the TV for some kind of distraction and it provided one in the form of a tragically off key singer.

John carried on looking at me for a long time before he turned away.

* * *

Author's Note: OK, so my first Sherlock fic because dear God this will not go away and I miss fanfiction way too much. Anyway, prepare yourself for a long multi-chaptered story. I really hope you guys enjoy and (of course) review? Sorry this was a little short, the next will be longer. This is going to be a little dark at times and as later chapters go on, fairly graphic.

Apologies for any mistakes, more up soon!

Bex

x x x x


	2. Chapter 2: Freudian Slips

**-Chapter Two: Freudian Slips **

Two more days passed since that strange night and I realised that no matter what I did (_and I was doing a lot too, even going to far as to attempt meditation one fitful evening!) _I was impossibly, painfully in love with John.

It didn't seem to matter what I did, what I convinced myself of. It couldn't be deleted, couldn't even be locked away in some distant turret. It was making itself right at home in the forefront of my mind. How I was even so certain of it, when it seemed such an elusive and impossible to define concept...was beyond me. But I _was_ certain, or at least some part of me was. That part of continuously insisted that I _do something_ about it. I had no real definition of what this 'something' was and since my previous attempts at research had been a dismal failure, I decided to try again with more perseverance.

There was a dark and painful knowledge in my mind now of what it meant to be with another man, physically at least. I knew the very basic functions, nothing more and to be honest, I wanted no part of anything like that. I was confident that my suddenly head over heels brain wasn't hankering after anything remotely like _that_.

So, romance films seemed to be my best bet, pathetic and mortifying as it was.

_'I could always just ask John,'_ my mind supplied helpfully, but I grimaced. John was by no means stupid, would figure out what I was doing immediately and then I would be far more embarrassed than I was now. Although he would be undoubtedly helpful; John after all had many girlfriends, lots of experience and always seemed completely comfortable with flirting.

Maybe a book, I pondered. Books might be more instructive, more literal.

I was halfway through working out which book shop to visit, when I realised I had completely forgotten what I was doing; talking to Lestrade in his office.

I blinked, wondering how much time had passed since I last spoke. Lestrade was staring at me with slightly narrowed eyes. I knew what was coming.

"Sherlock, what's wrong with you?"

Snippy comebacks: '_An insult coming from you, don't you think?' 'Where are these sparkling observational skills when needed in the field?' 'It would seem slightly offensive to assume that because I was zoning out while you were talking, something is wrong with _me_!'_

As it was, I said nothing and went with a shrug. "So, the agency?"

He shook his head. "No. Something is wrong. I've been noticing the last couple of days that something is seriously up with you and you need to tell me what it is."

"How to explain the way my high functioning mind works to you, essentially a Morlock?" I sighed. He cracked a grin and sat back in his chair.

"I know you, Sherlock. I don't know you like John does, but I know when you're hiding something. I helped you out, five years ago, didn't I? I helped you get clean."

"And I have been repaying you handsomely ever since," I scowled.

He chuckled with a certain warmth in his eyes. "I know you're not using, but something _is_ wrong and if you don't sort it out then it's really going to impact on your...crazy brilliance or whatever. Ordinarily, this kind of case would have been child's play to you."

That stung a little. "How on earth would you know? What progress have _you_ made, Detective Inspector?"

"I know that the agency is a wild goose chase that you've sent me on to draw out the real organisation. I know who the young man is, or was. He committed suicide this morning by jumping off the roof of his parents house. I know that you know who's behind this."

I was mildly impressed. Perhaps I _was_ off my game, even just a little. Damned stupid love and the trouble it was causing me. I was getting a book on the way home and that was _that_.

"Then what could you possibly need me for?" I drawled.

"I need you to tell me who's running the agency, obviously!" he exclaimed. "Bloody hell, Sherlock you can't keep stuff like this from me, we've discussed this a million times!"

"It was a theory," I lied casually. "Didn't want to get you all in a tizzy over a theory, now did I?"

"Right, so...? Who is it?"

I stood up abruptly. "Still in theory mode, I'm afraid. When the concrete dries, you'll be the first one I call."

I left before he could formulate a response. I was good at that.

* * *

By the time I got home, I was in an unpleasantly irritable mood. As it turned out, finding books on the subject I required had been a task of unforeseen difficulty. The '_romance_' section had been ridiculously huge with little to no referencing system of use to me. Eventually, a timid looking shop assistant had made her way over to ask if I needed any help. I held in the urge to deduce her to a pile of ashes and attempted to explain what I needed the books for in the simplest language I could imagine.

After gawking unattractively at me for a minute, she sprang to life and started piling book after book into my arms. It seemed that she was fairly well versed in books pertaining to love. It had begun well, some Austen person was apparently the authority on literary romance and love, especially, she had added, for someone like me. She said I was the spitting image of someone named Mr Darcy and that I should learn all I could. So far so good.

However, then we seemed to come out of the 'Classical Romance' section and into something called, 'Teen Romance'. This was where her enthusiasm went racketing up a billion notches and she began to regale me about the romance books of the century and how they would revolutionise my way of seeing love, no matter it's form. These books turned out to be about some kind of inter-species relationship between a century old vampire and a clumsy teen. I may have been a little sick in my mouth, but continued to allow her to ramble on.

When I could literally carry no more, I begged her to stop and paid a ridiculously high price for all the books I ended up struggling to carry home.

Hence by the time I arrived, I was in a less than pleasant mood. I had been hoping against hope that John was still at work, but no – of course he was back, he was at home sitting on the sofa reading the paper.

"Hi," he called out and I came staggering in with five bags of books. "Blimey, you didn't actually go shopping did you?" he laughed, turning to see me. "...in Waterstones?"

"No," I told him stiffly, feeling that same red heat creeping up my neck. "Research."

"Ah," he said with a nod and I prayed that he would let it drop at that. I was halfway to my bedroom when he came up behind me.

"So, what's the big case then? Must be something pretty important for you to have gone into an actual shop."

"It's nothing," I told him, trying to move faster. "Just a theory, nothing case-like about it."

"Twilight?" he asked sounding highly amused.

I turned and saw he had grabbed a book from one of the bags and yes, the heat exploded all over my face. "That...uh, that's not mine."

"Yeah?" he said peering into the bag. "You've got the whole series."

"Research!" I practically screamed. "All in the name of research!" I yanked the bags away, trying to get to my room but they were paper bags and so _of course_ all but two tore open, sending a cavalcade of romance flying through the air.

I stared at the mess of books littering the floor, desperately trying to think of what to say. John glanced around at them, picked one up – something by Nicholas Sparks - and sighed.

"Sherlock, I think we should talk."

Oh God, he knew. He had figured it out somehow _(What do you mean somehow? He just got avalanched by soppy, stupid love stories!)_ and now he wanted to let me down gently.

I was frozen in fear, _still_ halfway to my bedroom. Why did he have to be in?

"Look," he said pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please, come and sit down. It'll be quick and painless, OK?"

My heart (_stupid, useless trouble making heart!)_ gave a painful thump and all my hope vanished. I knew he would do this, I knew it all along. Still, I followed him back to the living room, tattered bags and two good ones still in hand. I must have looked ridiculous.

I sat on my chair and he on the couch. I waited, avoiding his gaze.

"So," he said briskly. "Who is it?"

I blinked, mind processing quickly. He thought this was all in aid of another person, he thought I was buying these stupid books for another person. This was perfect, I could just say someone, _anyone_ - make a name up at random even – and he would be supportive, maybe even help me with all this chaos and confusion and I wouldn't have to admit a thing. He had handed me a great gift, I could have cried with relief.

Maybe that was why it all went horrendously wrong. Maybe I was so relieved that I forgot myself, maybe it my psyche betraying me. Either way, it happened.

"You."

He didn't seem to understand at first and to be frank, neither did I. I wasn't even aware I'd said something. But I had. _Oh no. No, no, no. _

"Sorry? Did you say...what?"

My brilliantly witty mouth was failing me, all my cleverness and snark abandoning me utterly. I knew I should say something, say _anything_. What could make this worse? Oh yes, not saying anything could make it worse.

I saw the moment it dawned upon him. "Oh!" He looked genuinely shocked, like it had never occurred to him. Of course it hadn't, John was a lovely, normal person who didn't go around forming unhealthy attachments to the people in his life who were supposed to be friends.

The misery was eating me alive from the inside out and my hands were trembling quite badly, like they had not done in months. What could I do now but wait for his response? It was agony, watching him search for the correct words, the best and _kindest_ way to put it. I was disgusted to realise there was some small part of me that had actually held out some kind of hope that John might have reacted favourably, even reciprocated.

_'You idiot,'_ the other 95% of me told that smaller part. _'What on earth would he see in you? You're nothing but trouble to him; a constant unending source of annoyance and difficulty. You're a junkie, damaged goods...and he's not even gay! How many times has he said it, huh?'_

I closed my eyes against the unpleasant inner turmoil and wished for it to be over, then I could go outside, get some air, clear my head...yes, that was all I needed. Air. Brutal serial killings would be nice, but air would do for now.

"It makes a bit more sense now," John told me, running a hand through his hair. I tried not to stare; his hair was one of my favourite things about him. "You've been acting so weird and I guess now it makes a little more sense."

He looked at me, clearly expecting input but I was unable to think, let alone speak.

"Right, OK. Sherlock you're my best friend, you know how much I care about you, but," I contained a flinch as my heart broke a little. "...I'm not gay."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak ever again after the last little outburst. He leaned closer to me, sensing my discomfort perhaps.

"You're my best friend," he said again, softer. "You know how much I love you."

It was too much, far worse than I'd predicted. I stood in one fluid motion and left the flat without looking back.

* * *

Stupid to get so upset, stupid to leave and have actual thoughts of not coming back. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Everyone thought I was so clever, freakishly or otherwise. What would they all say now? I was so angry with myself it was actually making me feel sick. I hated myself so much, such a _pathetic_ unnecessary outburst and for what? Why couldn't I be like a normal human being and just _lie_? They all lied, all the time. _Oh yes, that dress makes you look so thin! You'll do wonderfully in your exams, don't worry! I was working late again, dear! _ All the time they lied to one another to spare themselves and their partners pain.

Some logical, detached part of me was insisting that I get a grip. This was nothing, we have survived worse. _Horrible blemish in my otherwise clean palace. Can't get it out, can never get it clean again. Just shut the door, lock it forever._

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut hard as though I could physically destroy the thoughts and memories that could not be deleted no matter what.

I had ruined everything. Again. Taken all the reparations and the rebuilt trust; destroyed it all, shattered the illusion that everything was fine, just like it had been before, _before_.

I couldn't stop shaking. What must I have looked like, standing under a tree in Queen Mary's Gardens? A psycho probably. It was almost night, verging on being a very cold one too. There was rain on the way, I could taste the pressure. I had nowhere to go. Mycroft perhaps but hell hadn't quite frozen over yet. Lestrade would tell John, albeit subtly. Who else was there? Molly? I didn't know where she lived and it seemed an imposition with her new boyfriend. Mrs Hudson _was_ 221 Baker Street – A, B and C so that was futile.

It was depressing to realise that that was it. My list of acquaintances, friends and family exhausted all in one.

I should be a man and go back, talk to John and face up to all of this. He would be gallant and gracious, even make a few jokes. But I couldn't cope with the idea on any level. I would have to be high out of my head for that and he would know right away.

The addict in me woke up with a snap at the very _thought_ of it. I felt the rousing influence, flooding me with longing and desire for that simplest of feelings; pure, utter peace; the slowing down of time in my chaotic mind. The utter bliss, bottled and injected. Even the lure of it was tangible, like a starving man smelling a steak, My icy wet fingers began to twitch as my mind raced to provide me with a dozen plans to get what I needed. How, when, how soon. I knew it all, ingrained upon my mind. I wouldn't care about any of this, I could relax and be myself but without the headache. I could solve this case in a split second. I could do anything.

If. _If_ I got what I so desperately craved.

But I didn't want to go back to that, I really didn't. It had taken so much out of me to quit the last time, only possible because of John. I would lose another piece of myself, another piece of my pride. No, I couldn't. There would be another way, something to take my mind off all this.

The case. I would focus on the case.

There was a number branded into my mind, along with John's. A number _she_ had given to me once, saying this would be the only way to contact her if and when such an emergency presented itself.

I withdrew my phone and dialled with shaking fingers. She answered after one ring.

* * *

I couldn't relax until night had fallen, it had always been that way ever since I was a child. It was a stereotype I had hidden carefully for fear of being accused of being a vampire (_It wouldn't be much of a stretch really, would it?)_, but daylight and all it encompassed made me genuinely edgy. Fully functional of course and practical. Light was required for all sorts of evidence analysis, observations and crime scene study. It was essential to my work, completely indispensable. Yet, I could never feel any sense of true calm until the sun had set and returned the world to it's natural state of darkness. On came the beautifully seductive lights of London, the criminals awaken, the rest of the normal, _boring_ world sleeps while I and am wide awake and calm enough to be myself. To play, to experiment, to think, the just _be_ without the fear of someone from the sunlight world knocking on my door and interfering with _my_ world.

John, though. He was quintessentially of the sun. He slept through the night (when he could) and worked through the day. He loved the sun, loved to see a bright cheery day in place of a rainy dark one. In many ways, overblown and quixotic ways, he _was _ the sun or at least the only type I could easily stomach.

The earth goes around the sun. I knew that now, of course. If he was the sun, was I then doomed to circle him forever? Caught in the orbit of his gravity, but never to get any closer than I already was?

I scowled. Just _buying_ those stupid books was making me think in purple prose.

"So," came a languid female voice from behind me. "Lovers tiff, or the end of the world?"

"Neither," I said brusquely and continued to glare out of the dirty window.

"Both," she chuckled dryly. "Must have been bad for you to call me. Didn't think I was on your Christmas Card list."

I turned from the window to face her. She had aged a little since last we saw one another. There were a few lines around her eyes that were deeper than they should have been for someone of her age; stress related, no doubt. Her hair was shorter now, just above her shoulders; it was better long. She had put on a small amount of weight too; that actually suited her. Less make-up too, but then judging by the state of things in her place, that seemed fairly in tune.

Unmistakably Irene Adler though. Not much of a disguise, but then she didn't have to hide so much these days, Moriarty being dead and all.

I smiled a little, despite myself. Simpler times. Jump off this roof or everyone dies. Why couldn't _everything_ be so simple? But then what I supposed was my conscience caught up with me and I felt sickly furious with myself. It was things like this that made everyone around me, John included, think I was a machine.

"Darling, you realise you're acting a little queerer than usual?" she asked with a slanted eyebrow, hinting at her interest. "Almost...human."

I sighed in disgust. "Hardly. I'm not here for friendly chats and cuddles by the fireplace. I was hoping to go about this with a little more finesse, but here we are."

She nodded, swirling the red liquid around I the glass. "The girl."

Her flat was nothing like what I'd expected when she gave me her address. It was clearly a semi-permanent residence, yet nothing to speak of luxury or taste. Simple, almost ugly walls in a distracting shade of peeling green. Furniture was outdated, second hand Ikea stuff, the type from _Gumtree_. It was clean, but not tidy. There was only one chair in the whole room – supposed to be the living room, maybe. She was sitting on the floor and I refused to take the chair, so I joined her. Bare floor boards, untreated and rough. _What if she gets a splinter? Tetanus is unlikely, but still precautions should be taken. Soaking it in hot water causes the white blood cells to come closer to the surface at least. _She was drinking red wine and continued to offer me a glass – she actually had _two_ of those – but I refused that too.

"You can hardly be running a high class escort service and be living somewhere like this," I pointed out. "Someone is setting you up."

"Bravo, darling," she said raising her glass to me in mock celebration. "I couldn't care less about the way this place looks. It has the most massive bathtub upstairs; you could do laps. And it's secure."

"The young man who purchased her, he killed himself did you know that?"

"Of course. His name was Christian Windamir, from what my sources tell me. Young, stupid and obscenely rich. Inherited wealth; I know the type."

I watched her very carefully. "And the girl?"

Barely a flicker of emotion, but I caught it anyway. Sadness, guilt, fondness. "She was a friend of mine. I knew her from school; poor girl had all the breeding and intelligence to be anything she wanted, but she was an addict from a young age. Hid it well, though. I lost touch years ago."

"What was her name?"

"Sarah Harrington," she said. "I give it a day before it gets traced back to me."

"Then why are you here, in London of all places?"

She smirked. "Aren't you glad that I am? Where else would you be right now were it not for me?"

_Under that same tree, much colder than before. _

"Did you just decide on a whim, or were you invited?"

No response, eyes averted. Ah.

"Who invited you?"

After a moment's pause she said, "It wasn't an invite. It was a threat. Someone sent me a picture of you." She reached across the floor to pull something out of her handbag. A large photograph. She handed it to me.

_Low quality shot, printed at any developer via USB or phone. Me, walking alone through London. Background puts me in Craven Hill, taken in the morning. Nothing tremendously significant, at least to suggest a threat._

"And?" I queried, knowing the significance was visible only to her.

She leaned over and pointed to someone walking a few feet behind me. A man on his mobile phone, half smiling to himself. He had light hair, mid forties, strong backed, tall.

"That," she said. "Is someone who worked for Moriarty."

"Impossible," I stated. "I tracked down and killed every last one of them."

She took a gulp of wine. "Nope. Not him. There's no way you killed him."

"Who is he?" I demanded, not liking where this was headed.

"No clue what his name is," she said. "Met him twice, he never even spoke. I know he was Moriarty's right hand man and always the man behind the little red dot aimed at your head."

I frowned, pieces starting to click. "The sniper?" Of course; there was primarily only one red dot and only ever one that acted independently, without Moriarty having to give an order. The man in the shadows, the man with the gun."

"That's him. Though from what I gathered at the time, he was more than just a crack shot."

"How so?"

"I heard they were more like partners in crime. It was only rumours. Still, these things usually have a grain of truth at the heart."

While I was pondering a hundred things, one occurred to me and demanded an answer.

"How long have you been back?"

She smiled ruefully. "Two months."

"You never warned me, you never called to tell me any of this."

"Darling, I was afraid it was a trap somehow. I waited until you got wind of me, which actually took a bloody long time. Had other things on your mind, I expect?"

"No, you had nothing else on your mind. You've been here for six months; no projects, no way of making real money, you had nothing to do for all that time. Something stopped you from getting involved directly."

Rather than looking ashamed or caught out, she grinned wide. "Oh I have _missed you_, Sherlock!"

"What have you been doing?"

She shrugged elegantly. "Plotting, scheming...you know how it is when you're bored."

"Irene."

"Oh fine, but I would have expected you to figure it out by now on your own!" She threw her arms out. "One last chance, regain some dignity and pride? No, fine then you lose!"

I blinked. "I don't understand."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm pregnant."

I must have pulled an amusingly shocked face because she burst out laughing. So out of character for her, so unlike her...hormones maybe? I couldn't help looking down at her stomach. No visible sign of a protrusion yet, but now with the value of hindsight I could see she had put a little weight on around that general area. Good God.

"I bet you're analysing it like some kind of alien parasite, aren't you?"

I felt a little speechless. The sheer _concept _ of Irene Adler being pregnant was indeed, alien.

"How?" I managed, stupidly.

She flashed that grin. "Well, Sherly, when a man and a woman love each other very much they..."

"No, I know the logistics!" I snapped. "But...you? How? _Why_?"

Despite her smile, I couldn't help but feel mildly devastated for her. It was probably the worst thing that could have happened to her. She was wanted dead by so many, had lived such an outrageous and morally repulsive lifestyle for so long that she would be forever known as such. To be burdened with a child...it made an already complicated situation into a veritable minefield of chaos and uncertainty.

"No congratulations?" she sighed. "I thought as much. I suppose in your eyes there's little worse that can befall someone like us."

"How far gone...?"

She shook her head. "Too far. Don't you think it crossed my mind? I had no idea until about the fourth month. No sickness, no cravings."

"But how? And who?"

"The how is that 1% that no-one thinks can happen to them and the who is unknown. Honestly, it could be at least eight different men. I have no idea."

"You don't sound too ashamed. John informs me that these kinds of scenarios are to be loathed and exposed brutally on Jeremy Kyle."

"Well he would know, being your moral compass and all. Anyway, here I am. With child. Feel like stepping up and kneeling down?"

I choked a little. "What?"

"Only kidding, Sherlock. Imagine you as a father, my God." She shuddered.

I stiffened, offended for some reason I couldn't quite grasp. "What would be so bad about that?" What was I _saying_? Oh God, was she tricking me into it somehow?

"You're offended!" she laughed. "I didn't think it would have occurred to you to even consider it, sweetheart. I didn't think male pregnancy was that far along."

"John isn't gay, for the last time. Why do you think I'm here?" I snapped.

She rolled her eyes again. "Yes, yes. John's straight, I'm gay and you're asexual. We've all got the message!"

I gave her a slanted look. "Can you really crow so loudly about being gay after you've just admitted that any one of eight men might be the father of your unplanned child?"

"Love and sex are two completely different things, darling. One day you'll understand."

I already understood _that_ concept just fine, thanks.

"And I am not asexual."

"Really? Chosen a side have you?"

I fixed her with a defiant stare. "I was always gay."

"I bet you weren't _that_ gay until John came along," she teased, not intimidated by my glare in the slightest. "Shame he's so straight. Then again, so is spaghetti until you heat it up."

"Should you be drinking wine?" I asked, almost frantically trying to change the subject. I vaguely recalled that drinking wine was bad for pregnant women. Or was it good? No, bad. I was sure of it.

She shrugged again. "It's only one glass."

"Already mother of the year," I muttered. "Can we please get back on track?"

"Alright," she said solemnly. "This man is dangerous, Sherlock. He obviously has you targeted, has something planned. I can't be a part of it. I've been waiting for you to find me so I could tell you, but now I have told you, I have to leave and go deep. I can't risk it."

"I know. I appreciate what you've done for me already."

She reached across and placed her hand on my cheek. "Be careful, Sherlock," she said softly with some kind of genuine emotion there in her eyes. "Faking it won't work this time."

We said our goodbye's and I left, hailing a cab in the rain to return home.

* * *

By the time I made it back to 221b, it was almost 2am. I expected silence and darkness to welcome me as I opened the lock, but instead I was greeted by a small chink of light and the sounds of television. John was still awake, then. Or maybe he had fallen asleep in front of the TV and I could sneak past him,

But no, I heard the sound stop at once; he had heard me and muted the TV to check.

"Sherlock?" he called out down the stairs. I sighed, hung my coat and scarf and headed up the stairs with the feeling I was heading towards some kind of tribunal. He was at the door before I was even through it, a smile and a pat on the shoulder his way of greeting me.

"You're back!" he stated brightly. "I was worried about you, it was raining and everything. Where did you go?" He backed off so I could come in. He was maintaining his cheery attitude very well. "Did you want a cup of tea? I also made some dinner, your favourite; chicken roast dinner."

"Tea would be lovely," I told him after a painful moment of silence between us. His smile brightened even more.

"Great! Tea, brilliant." He dashes off to boil (_no, re-boil by the sound of it)_ the kettle while he bustled about noisily. "So, where did you go? I called everyone. Except Mycroft, of course."

Slowly, I made my way to my chair and sat. "Who did you call?" I asked.

He shrugged, heaping sugar into my tea. H knew I loved sugar. "Lestrade, Molly. You know, everyone."

I nodded, what a pathetic _everyone_.

"Are you hungry?" he called out. "If you don't want the dinner, I can go to that place that's open till 5."

"John."

"Or if you want I can rustle up something else. I know you like that weird Russian thing that sounds like a supernatural wound..."

"_John_."

"...Goulash, that's it. I went shopping earlier and got loads of nice stuff so if you want I can..."

"John!"

He spun around, spoon in hand. "Yeah?"

I cleared my throat. "Why is there a DVD on pause depicting two men having sex?"

His face burst into a painful shade of beetroot red. Was that how I looked earlier?

"Ah," he said, suddenly high pitched. "That. Yes, well. When I was out, um, in Tesco's you know, I thought I'd have a look in their DVD section, see if there was anything good. And uh, well...there was this DVD box-set and it was reduced so I thought I'd give it a go."

"A box-set of what?" I asked suspiciously.

"It's called _Queer as Folk,_" he told me, bringing two cups of tea over. "It's actually really good. Good...plot and...characters."

This was hell and I was in it. Why, why, _why_ did I have to say anything?

"Right," I said, taking my tea. "And the fact that I told you that it was you I was in love with earlier, has nothing whatsoever to do with your new-found interest in a gay TV series?"

He dropped his mug of tea. It smashed quite loudly and red hot tea went flying over the floor.

"You...what?"

For a moment I genuinely had no idea what I'd said to cause this. His face was now bordering on looking as shocked as the day I'd turned up in a cab, back from the dead. Then it came back; my mind giving me a lovely little blow by blow of my most recent _stupidity_.

_'...In love with you...'_

_What. Was. Wrong. With. Me?_

At this point, I decided to just give up. I really was cold and tired, I didn't want to go running off again and this time where would I go? My one person I could have turned to was now pregnant and deep undercover, probably for the rest of her life.

I stared at my tea. Thank God for tea.

"I didn't mean to say it like that," I said, watching tiny ripples form over the surface of the hot liquid, from my shaking hands. My hands never used to shake, _never_.

"Sherlock," he said with quiet urgency. "You're in love with me?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm in love with you. But I know it's not reciprocated, I know you're straight and that I'm in this alone. You're my best friend, you care about me. But not like that."

I dared to look up at him, but it was a mistake. His face made my whole chest tighten; he looked genuinely devastated. I hated myself; weak, pathetic, toxic.

"I...I have no idea what to say," he whispered eventually. "I didn't think it was like that, I would _never_ have thought that."

"Why?" I just managed to stop myself from snapping. "Because I'm a machine, incapable of love or caring?"

"You know I don't think that." he said, more loudly this time. "I meant that I'm shocked you would be in love with _me."_

I shrugged. "Why would you think it? You're straight after all."

"I thought you loved or at least deeply cared for Irene Adler," he said slowly, still ignoring the smashed mug and the pool of rapidly cooling tea.

This required some sort of admission, a confession even and I was too tired for any of it. I hadn't felt this tired since I'd been a young boy and was experiencing growing pains.

"It doesn't matter," I said, and took a blissfully warm sip of the perfectly sweetened tea. "I don't want to talk about it any more. I'm sorry I ever said anything and would really appreciate it if we could just let it go."

"You want to just move on? After what you just said?" John asked incredulously.

"If it is possible to do so, yes I would. There is nothing to be gained from this and I cannot bear the awkwardness. Please, John."

He looked at me, considering something. "But I want to be here for you, I want to help you through this."

"How? By watching some gay television show together?"

He shuffled. "Maybe. Why not? It was actually really good."

"Because I'm not some angst ridden teenager in need of a coming out support group," I barked.

"Oh, that reminds me. I put your books on your bed."

Ah, yet another lovely stab of agonising embarrassment. Wonderful.

"Some of them actually look pretty good," he went on bravely. "Not the ones about vampires, but the older ones. I like the Bronte sisters."

"You can stop this charade any time you want, John," I said. "It can't last forever. Be honest with me; how bad is this? Is it bad enough that you'll leave?"

He started forward, but then stopped, maybe thought better of it. "No! That is absolutely _not_ what this is at all! You know I wouldn't leave you, especially not over something like this!"

Moodily, I replied, "What would make you leave then?"

"Don't give me the tone," he warned. "Nothing can or will make me leave, you moron. Yes, this is an issue. But we'll get through it together. We've gotten through worse."

I said nothing, too tired and hurt to keep this going. Instead, I nodded and drank some more tea.

"Oi," he said, demanding eye contact. "We _have_ got through worse! I'm not letting you spiral off into some cloud of depression over this. It's nothing, really. You know I love you, Sherlock. Just not in _that_ way." I closed my eyes hard against his words; the words I dreaded. Any minute now he was going to attempt a joke. "Hey, if I swung that way you'd be the first on my list," he laughed. It rang false though, despite his efforts and I couldn't help but feel wretched.

The best thing to do was go along with it.

I forced some measure of a smile. "How flattering," I said. "It's like the night we met all over again."

He visibly relaxed, his smile becoming genuine in a second. "Hey, it's not my fault you missed your chance mate. I was throwing myself at you."

From some reserve of strength, I managed a laugh and was shocked at how real it sounded. I finished my tea and stretched.

"Well if there are no more dramas, I really am tired."

John looked a little surprised. "You are?"

"Yes, very actually. Goodnight, John."

"Oh, yes. Um, goodnight then."

He was about to say something else, but I made it to my bedroom before he could. I closed to the door and finally took a breath.

* * *

_A/N - So here's the next chapter, I'm sorry it took so long. Actually, for me, this is pretty good. My last story had a gap of roughly three months between chapters towards the end so this isn't too bad. OK, a couple of things. _

_Firstly, thanks so much for all the lovely reviews! Always so fracking wonderful to hear from you guys. _

_Secondly, I'm paranoid that this chapter came off as very different character wise than the first. Partly this is intentional as Sherlock is going through some changes, both mentally and physically at this time, but also because I want to show how distracting being in love with John is. But I'm paranoid because all the reviews were praising my ability to properly characterise Sherlock and now I'm having a heart attack that I've messed it up. If this annoyed you, please bear with me. I didn't just make him go OOC for no reason, if indeed he was so OOC. _

_Thirdly, this is going to be long. I've come up with a pretty intricate plot and lots of awesome sub plots, all circulating around the love story. Apologies for any mistakes, please point them out if they're bad. I have no beta and as usual, am writing this at 4:26am. _

_Fourthly, review? I long to hear from you guys and genuinely, feedback would be a great way to stop my heart attack of panic that I've screwed it all up. _

_Love, Bex_

_x x x x_


	3. Chapter 3: Babybels and Baby Names

**-Chapter Three: Babybels and Baby Names-**

_**John**_

Not all of us were so incredibly multi-talented like Sherlock Holmes. Not all of us even had a speciality and it was certainly rare to see a speciality or a skill honed to such razor precision like that of my friend. Most of us had to make do with what we have and as it was, my one real skill of any use to me was endurance.

I had been told many that it was fortunate that this was my special skill as I was living with and working with a certain Consulting Detective. It was true; he required endurance and patience and even when it was provided, he tested it rather ruthlessly. The first years of living with him often seemed like a series of tests, sent to push me to breaking point and although it never really happened, I certainly learned that I did indeed possess endurance. I had endured pain, terror and war and now I could endure Sherlock Holmes.

Everything changed when he died. To be fair, the first six months didn't even really count as I lived them in perpetual certainty that he was absolutely _not_ dead. For those six months, I had gone about my life fairly normally, steady in the knowledge that he wasn't dead at all. It was some plan, some flawlessly executed plan and any day he was going to walk back in, coat and scarf on, and demand tea without so much as a hint of an explanation. I felt it deep inside of myself, utterly sure that there was no way he, _Sherlock Bloody Holmes, _hadn't thought of a way out of it. Hadn't had some plan up his sleeve. For those six moths I lived my life with all the appearance of a normal grieving person whilst secretly checking the website, the blog, the entire flat for clues he might have been leaving me.

Then six months passed and my faith began to crumble, day by day. My rock solid certainty that my best friend _was not dead_, faded and left room for sickening doubts and uncertainties. Every day that passed after that time felt like a stab in the gut, as it went without hide nor hair of a sign that he was alive and hiding somewhere.

Then twelve months hit me and I lost it. All the utter horror and grief and sheer, debilitating loneliness that I had kept at bay for so long, hit me hard. I quit my job, I stopped eating, stopped washing, stopped going out. I kept the curtains drawn, locked the doors and hid myself away in his bedroom, staring for hours at the walls. I cried so much it felt unnatural and I had never known myself less during that time. I shouldn't have been that upset, I knew it. He was a friend, a good friend but a friend nonetheless. I started hallucinating him. I began to see him for mere seconds at a time, out the corner of my eye, sometimes right in front of me. Always the same, always in his coat and scarf. I saw him around the flat, I saw him out the window. It was unbearable. The grim and immovable realisation that he _was_ dead threatened to eat me alive.

Seventeen months passed and I somehow found the will to live again. To move and exist and eat. I got my job back ridiculously easily, I suspected Mycroft had interfered. Mrs Hudson started coming up to the flat again. Sometimes she hinted that I should leave, it was clearly having a bad effect on me. I should move on, find somewhere of my own.

I couldn't leave. I had thought about it so much, but the pain of leaving that place – so infused with his soul and essence - was an agony I could not tolerate. All his experiments, the ones that had not rotted or disintegrated, remained exactly where they had been. His room was unchanged, except the bed was constantly unmade as for some reason it was the only place I could sleep.

At the eighteen month mark, I disassembled the experiments best I could and boxed them up. I closed the door to his room and moved back into my own, although it felt alien at first. I cleaned and tidied everything. I put his violin back in it's case. He remained there in everything I saw, but now I was at least attempting to move on, right? I was in my own bed now, I was eating and working. I was functioning.

People came to see me again once they heard I had unlocked the door. Lestrade and Mycroft, mainly. Lestrade several times, Mycroft only once to casually inform me that he had arranged for me to take a break up North; some kind of medical conference in a 4 star hotel. I agreed to go, hoping it would hasten his departure. I still felt horrendously uncomfortable around him; the voice, the eyes, the perceptiveness. All so familiar.

Lestrade was kind though and easy to be around. He was one of the only people who would talk about Sherlock with me. I wanted to talk about him all the time, because it felt like he was alive when I did and he was the only one who would engage me. Sometimes he came after work, sometimes on weekends. He always had a different story about Sherlock, something about the years before I'd known him. Something new, instead of old re-runs.

It was during these story telling sessions that I realised all the things that used to annoy me about him, were the things I missed the most. The violin, the manic boredom, the sudden bursts of energy. His bone dry humour and razor wit. His dangerous experiments. Everything that people had praised me for enduring, were the things I would have given anything to have back.

And so I endured the loss, instead. I went up to Sunderland for this Godforsaken weekend conference, even though it was November and bloody freezing up North. I went and tried to ignore how much I missed Baker Street. I even managed to talk to a few people.

Then I hallucinated him again. This time in broad daylight, outside of the hotel. He was covered in blood, beaten nearly to death but it was him. Like we had been on a case together and things had gotten bad, but he'd made it through because he _always_ made it through.

I had almost been glad to see him, even if it wasn't real. The pain was mixed with some small grain of relief that I would never forget his face.

But the hallucination wasn't going away like the others. Then the woman I'd been talking to looked at him like she saw him too.

Then...then he spoke, and my heart caught in my throat. My body knew it was him before my mind and I was struck by shock. It was _him. _

He was alive, he had come back to me.

The miracle I had begged for, the second chance I would have sold my soul for.

And how did I repay this miracle? I was horrible to him. Cruel, childish and cold. He was so badly hurt that in my panic the only person I could think of to call was Mycroft. I was in shock, useless and stupidly unable to do anything except ask a porter to help me get him to my room. Mycroft and his people were there shockingly fast. Less than half an hour. I was suspicious to this day that he had been waiting for Sherlock to pop up in the general area somewhere, but never asked.

His medical staff did what they could for Sherlock and I was told very little. Again, I was suspicious of what exactly was being kept from me but I had never demanded to know. Some part of me had a theory, but it was too horrible to acknowledge. Especially after how I had treated him.

After a day he was moved to a hospital in London and then two weeks later, I was allowed to take him back to Baker Street. This was where the trouble began. He was badly damaged by what had happened to him, not only physically. I noticed the begginings of severe PTSD during his recovery. Sometimes he would be speaking and then stop completely, his eyes losing focus. Memories, flashbacks. He absolutely refused to talk about it, point blank. Worst of all, he stopped sleeping. Like, literally _never_ slept. He would rest, lay on the sofa and just stare at the ceiling but he never slept. Not for at least three weeks. It was then that things got really bad.

He started using again. At first I didn't quite notice, but after two days I knew. He was sleeping, he was calm, he was focused. The PTSD had vanished, replaced with something else. It took some very stressful, painful months to get him off it; memories of a time I just wanted to forget.

I endured, for him.

I would endure _anything_ for him.

This latest addition to the ever increasing insanity that was our lives only required a little more endurance and I was happy to give it. Though I didn't doubt the truth of his feelings, I doubted that he was actually in love with me. Deep down, I suspected it was due to the obviously repressed PTSD that was attempting to resurface. His hands shook often, he was sleeping less and less again and often drifting off and away while speaking. His attention was less focused, he was having problems with the simplest of cases.

Honestly, it took priority over his supposed all consuming love for me. But I didn't say that at all. It was clearly an tremendous thing for him; he had bought so many romance novels after all and that must have been painful. It was endearing, flattering even.

And yet, I still wasn't gay. Still liked women. His _face_ when I'd said it...it broke my heart a little. A furious part of me _wanted_ to be gay just so he could be happy; not rejected, not disappointed, not humiliated (_no matter what I said or did). _

I felt horrible. I had already been a terrible person, terrible human being actually, and now I had to _Let Him Down Gently_, from what I was pretty sure was his first romantic interest. If indeed it was as such.

"Sir?"

"Whuh?" I half growled at the alarmed checkout lady. I cleared my throat and tired again. "Excuse me, what?"

"Sorry sir, but your card had been declined. Do you want to try again?"

Typical. Reality kicking in just when I needed it least.

"Uh, no. I've got another card, give this one a go," I said handing her Sherlock's card which miraculously, worked. We hadn't been making any money lately, except my pitiful income and I once again suspected Mycroft was involved somehow. A headache was forming, I was thinking way too much.

Walking up the stairs with the shopping, I felt the familiar sense of contained dread that I felt every time I left him alone and then came back, unsure of what I would find. However the fear was dispelled almost immediately as I entered and found him with a blowtorch in one hand, a femur bone in the other.

"Making dinner?" I quipped and he looked up with a smirk. Damn it, not wearing protective goggles again. I was going to have to glue them to his head at this rate. "I like mine medium rare."

"Unlikely option as I was attempting to char the bone. Did you get everything I asked for?" he asked, setting the bone down on a metal tray. "The Babybels?"

I sighed and set the bag on the counter, rifling through one and producing a pack of the new thing he loved to eat now. "Yes, I got your bloody Babybels. They're for kids, you know."

"They're mine now," he said, rather darkly and I couldn't help but laugh a little. "Thanks for that, John. Can't function properly without them."

I supposed I should have been thrilled that he had actually found a food that he liked, craved even. Except they weren't the healthiest things ever and I had a feeling he was eating them when he felt faint because cheese gave him a burst of energy and a sense of fullness. It did nothing to soothe my concerns that I had seen to at least four different anorexic women who used the same trick, albeit not with Babybels.

I looked at him, trying desperately to see him as he would see himself, with sharp discernment.

He was thin, but he had always been thin. He never wore anything less than a shirt so it was difficult to see his arms and gauge how it had affected his muscle mass. He was pale, but again – not much in the news department. He was lively, full of energy and active though. He was sleeping (occasionally) and eating sporadically.

But I was purposefully trying to put a positive spin on it and I knew it.

Truthfully, his hands were trembling even while using that sodding blowtorch. He was starting to be just fractionally forgetful, something he _never_ was before. His sleeping patterns were atrocious, to the extent that he might as well not bother sleeping at all. He was weaker; he hardly ever ran, ever gave chase any more. Once he had gone out of his way to avoid confrontation with a suspect. He didn't seek out dangerous cases like he used to. He didn't relish danger like he once had. He hated leaving the flat. He hated speaking to people, especially men. He hated the daytime.

I forced myself to stop, shocked and furious with myself for being so ignorant for so long. There was something wrong with him and I hadn't wanted to see it, for all my useless good intentions.

"John?" He was staring at me, gaze piercing a hole into my head. "What is it?"

I shrugged as nonchalantly as possible and continued putting the shopping away. "Just remembered I was supposed to get kitchen foil. That's twice in a row I've forgotten."

He narrowed his eyes. "No," he said bluntly. "That's not it. You were...you were _deducing_ me."

I gave a snort of laughter. "As if, we all know who the genius is around here and it's not the guy who makes the tea."

He wouldn't look away. "So, am I anorexic?"

Caught between a pause and shrug I said, "I don't know, you tell me."

He took my aborted shrug and made it his own; graceful and careless. "How should I know? Aren't you the doctor?" His eyes bored into mine with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. "Shouldn't you recognise the signs? Or does it tie in to your theory that I'm repressing PTSD and failing?"

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, itching with tiredness and frustration. "For Christ's sake, you don't have to say it like that. I'm not going behind your back scheming and plotting. I'm just worried. I am allowed to be worried after all."

He turned back to his experiment with all the appearance of boredom but I saw the tremble in his fingers betray him more violently than it had a minute ago. "Of course," he said, viciously charring the bone until it blackened. "That's what friends do, isn't it? Worry about each other?"

There was a slight inflection on the word, _'friends'_ but I tried to ignore it. "Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with admitting that you might, occasionally, need just the slightest bit of help. People come to you for help everyday."

"There's nothing wrong."

I nodded. "Right, except that I actually know a few things about this. Aside from being a bloody doctor, I actually endured PTSD myself and helped others with it too."

"Good for you."

"It wouldn't have to be therapy," I said, trying really hard not to grit my teeth. "There's medication you could try."

He gave a derisive snort. "I tried that. You didn't approve too much."

_I would not lash out at him. I would stay calm. He needs help. _

"Not _that_," I snapped. "Paroxetine or Mirtazapine."

"I don't need it."

"What _do_ you need then?"

He faltered and looked down. I felt so terrible so suddenly; such a stupid thing to say. We were doing so well with the whole, _'Not Talking About It' _thing and then I had to go and put my foot right in it. It sent a horrible shiver of guilt all the way down my spine to see him look so hurt, so _beaten_ by such a question.

_Couldn't just be gay, could I?_

"OK, I'm sorry," I said, as calmly as possible. "All I meant was that living off of Babybels and forty five minutes of sleep isn't conducive to long life. And if you don't mind, I'd like you to be around a while, thanks."

He nodded, face relaxing instantly and went about with his foul smelling experiment. I finished up and left him to it, fleeing like a teenager to the privacy of my bedroom.

* * *

Half an hour of useless internet browsing later I heard voice from downstairs and strained to listen. Mycroft.

Oh bloody hell.

I snapped the laptop shut and went to the door, pressing my ear against it.

_"...hardly expect reciprocation in this case."_

"_How many ways can I tell you to go fuck yourself?"_

"_After all, you've put him and everybody else through so much already."_

"_Va te faire foutre."_

"_It's so typical of you to ask the most of people and then ask for more."_

"_Futue te Ipsum."_

"_I can barely fathom his patience as it is."_

"_Vete ala puta verga."_

"_You can't just make everyone dance like puppets."_

"_Gun ni ma de dan."_

"_Not to mention how unhealthy a relationship would even be for you right now."_

"_Moka-moka su su."_

"_Oh for the love of all that's holy, Sherlock! Will you stop it! It's wonderful to see what such an expensive education bought us all."_

Despite the subject matter, I couldn't help but laugh. Trust Sherlock to know how to say _that_ in every language under the sun. I decided maybe it was kinder to go downstairs and put a stop to the subject.

They were still hissing at one another when I came in.

"Hello," I said, with a smile and a nod. "Tea?"

"Nice to see you again, John," Mycroft said lazily. He was sitting opposite from Sherlock as usual, while the man in question glared at him violently. There was nostril flare and everything. "How have you been?"

"Great thanks," I said with forced cheerfulness. The look on Sherlock's face suggested he might at any moment burst into a fit of mass genocide. "Yourself?"

"Oh," he practically purred. "You know how it is when you have a troublesome sibling. Tiring."

I was still standing by the kettle, unable to turn away and from Sherlock and trust that wasn't actually going to stab his brother in the eye with his bow. "Yeah, well," I said, trying to get Sherlock to look at me. "Elder siblings aren't a bowl of fun either."

Ordinarily, this might have made Sherlock smile just a little bit. A small twitch in the corner of his mouth, maybe. Nothing this time. It was almost like he was avoiding looking at me.

"I was just checking in," Mycroft said giving me a thin smile in place of the one I wanted from my best friend.

"And now you can check out," Sherlock practically snarled. There was always a certain degree of tension between them both, but this was different. What Mycroft had been saying while I was upstairs had clearly crossed some sort of line.

"Believe it or not, I didn't actually come here to braid your ridiculously long hair and chat about romance," Mycroft replied with a nasty smirk. Sherlock's cheeks darkened. "I came to inform you that Irene Adler is quite correct, you are indeed being followed, watched and singled out for some purpose not known to us yet."

My chest experienced a horrible stabbing pain. "Wh-what?" I spluttered. "What is this, now?"

For the first time, Sherlock actually glanced in my direction, if only for a moment.

"I went to see Irene Adler not long ago. She showed me a picture of someone following me. Apparently someone who worked for Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded. "The sniper, from what we gather. Moriarty's right hand man."

The stabbing pain was spreading. "You mean the person who had a gun aimed at me that night in the pool?"

"We also believe that he was the one watching you, ready to shoot if Sherlock didn't complete his little swan dive."

The pain vanished for a moment, replaced by anger. "Swan dive?" I echoed. "He threw himself off a building to save the people he loved. I wouldn't belittle it so much if I were you."

"He had a plan, though didn't he? Tennis ball and all. Hardly a great sacrifice."

I moved to stand beside Sherlock's chair, getting angrier by the minute. "No, not much of a sacrifice is it? Faking your own death, letting the people who love you the most believe that you were a fraud. Spending the next few years hunting down the rest of Moriarty's empire so we could all be safe. Enduring months of torture. No big deal."

My hands were shaking and I was _so _ angry at him.

"By the way," I went on. "I noticed someone in that list who didn't have a gun pointed at their heads. Funny that, isn't it? It was all the people who he cared about the most and who in turn cared for him. Don't remember seeing _your_ name on that list. Maybe that's because you're the one who sold him out. Moriarty give you a nice little free pass, did he?"

Mycroft shot me a deadly glare through slitted eyes. "How dare you...?"

"And another thing," I added loudly, cutting him off. "Not that you'd know, but it's a bloody honour to be loved by this man, in whatever way he deems fit to love. So you can take your crap advice and get lost thanks. The day we need your guidance on anything more intimate than yet another piddly Government Emergency is the day the world comes to a nasty and abrupt end."

Thick, tangible silence filled the air and I realised my hand was on Sherlock's arm. Mycroft stood quickly and rather awkwardly.

"Glad to see I've been of help in reigniting the camaraderie," he said shortly. "Goodbye, John. Sherlock."

I waited until I heard the front door shut before I let out the breath I was holding.

"Bloody hell, he's going to put me on Interpol's most wanted!" I yelled. "What's wrong with me?"

"Absolutely nothing," Sherlock said, sounding oddly calm. "He's a wanker of the highest degree. Did you know he installed extensive surveillance in this flat during my absence?"

I paused, mid panic. "Um, no? Did he really? Oh God, how mortifying."

"Not only for you," Sherlock said darkly. "He came to ask if I wanted a Kindle for all my new literature."

"Oh, Sherlock! I'm so sorry. He _is_ a total wanker."

He finally stood and turned to look at me. "Well, you certainly gave him what for, anyway." There was a smile playing about his eyes that made me insanely proud of myself all of a sudden. "Thank you, John. It means a lot."

I was about to say something witty and impressive when I looked down and realise I was still gripping his arm. More like his hand, actually. I hadn't even noticed until now, it hadn't even registered. It took me a second to let go.

"Sorry," I said glancing up and noticing that Sherlock's cheeks were still faintly pink.

"What's for dinner?" he asked without missing a beat.

"You're hungry?" I asked, a mixture of disbelief and delight. "Really?"

"Yes," he said decisively. "What's that complicated thing you make that I like?"

"Spaghetti bolognese?"

"That's the stuff! Can we have that?"

I laughed at his sudden child-like enthusiasm and felt helpless to do anything except indulge it.

"Of course. With or without grated Babybels?"

* * *

A whole day passed without incident or disaster; I was actually starting to trick myself into believing that everything was somehow getting better. It had been an oddly nice day too, especially in the evening when I convinced Sherlock to watch a DVD with me. He figured out the plot in the first two minutes, but I didn't let it bother me. It was nice to see him actually sitting still for a while, eating his beloved Babybels and spaghetti. He was calm, relaxed. Maybe even happy, although I couldn't have said for sure.

And of course, the next day at 7am promptly, the doorbell rang.

I was already awake, enjoying the silence and calm when I heard it ring. Part of me wanted to kill whoever that was, because Sherlock was actually asleep. I knew it was too late of course; he knew the kind of ring, the urgency to it and was flying down the stairs in his dressing gown before I could even think of a reason for him not to.

When he came up, he was with someone I certainly never expected to see again. Irene Adler.

Sherlock look vaguely put out; disappointed maybe that it wasn't the psycho sniper. She looked very different from the last time I'd seen her. Had she...had she gotten fat?

"Dr Watson," she said with a lipstick-less smile. "You look well."

I bit down on the childish urge to say, _'And you look fat._' I was an adult after all and some ridiculous feeling of hostility towards the woman was entirely uncalled for.

"What's the point of tender goodbye's if they're not actually goodbye's?" Sherlock snapped, clearly in the throes of disappointment now. "I thought you were going undercover."

She sat down without being asked and I noticed she was wearing flat shoes. If she was in disguise, it was brilliant.

"Well," she said with an elongated sigh. "Yesterday I was just about get in a hired car and be driven away into the sunset, when I realised I'd left something. I went back for it, as I was approaching the driver opened the door for me and then the car exploded."

She paused, for dramatic effect. I saw that Sherlock actually looked concerned. I controlled the urge to roll my eyes. She was clearly fine, wasn't she? Sitting there all smug and alive.

"The driver got burnt to a crisp, bless him and his manners and I got thrown back about twenty feet into the air."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off. "It's fine. I got checked out and then hid for a while in a horrendous B&B until morning when I came to you. Here I am."

"The sniper," Sherlock said.

"Likely," she replied as if he'd asked a question. "I didn't stick around to the analyse the device, but bombs wouldn't be exactly new to him would they? Who do you think rigged your pool outfit?" she said with a glance in my direction.

"So he tried to kill you? For what? Warning Sherlock?" I asked.

"I doubt it," Irene said biting her lip. "He wanted me to warn Sherlock, knew I'd tell him everything. He knows where I've been all this time, I'm sure of it. Why kill me now?"

She subconsciously rubbed her abdomen; maybe she'd sustained an injury of some kind.

"To send a message?" Sherlock muttered. "To make sure I got the message from you and then know that he had killed you?"

"Bit dramatic," I chuckled, trying to break the ice. It failed miserably and they both ignored me.

"Irene," Sherlock said in a warning voice. "Is there anything you've left out? Are you certain?"

"I've told you everything I know about him. If I knew anything else, I'd tell you in the hopes you could kill him," she said and flounced back into the chair. "Have you got anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Toast?" I offered feebly. "Or Babybels." Sherlock shot me a glare, obviously not thrilled at the prospect of losing one of his precious snacks.

"Urgh," she grimaced. "No cheese thanks, little Miss isn't having of that lately. Toast would be great though."

I stood up. "Right, tea or...wait a minute, what? Who is '_Little Miss'_?"

Sherlock and Irene both gave me a kind of, _'Really, idiot?'_ look while I tried not to get offended. Then my brain caught up.

"Holy fuck!"

Irene sniggered at my horrified reaction.

"Oh my God please tell me that's a joke or some kind of...are you really pregnant? Oh Jesus!"

"Calm down, John," she said, shifting in her chair. "I double checked the due date and it's not going to be the 6th of June."

"You?" I gasped, pointing at her as if it needed clarification. "You can't be pregnant."

"You should have seen Sherlock's face," she told me conspiratorially. "That was the face."

A horrible and world ending thought entered my head. They both seemed to pick up on it before I had even verbalised it.

"Don't worry John, you can hang onto your middle name for now," Sherlock sighed rather dramatically. "It's not mine."

"I wouldn't dare get in the middle of true love," Irene added unhelpfully. "The father isn't anyone of relevance."

"How far along are you?

"Four months," she said. "I'm surprised a Doctor like yourself didn't notice. Or did you think I'd just gotten fat?"

"No, of course not," I said defensively. "It's just...there's a lot going on, isn't there?"

"Sherlock," she said turning her attention back to him. "Can you help me? I have to get out of the country. Alive, if possible."

I saw Sherlock grimace and knew what that meant. That meant asking Mycroft for a favour. It meant apologising, being _nice_ even. There was no other way.

"Yes," he muttered sulkily. "I suppose."

"Lovely," she said with an uncharacteristically soft smile. "John, where's my toast?"

* * *

So that was the next four hours of my life; sitting at my laptop, pretending to write on my blog when in reality I was typing in random phrases on Google like, _'How to help someone acknowledge they have PTSD'_ and _'How to cure PTSD without medical help.'_ The occasional query like, _'Can someone with PTSD fall in love?' _slipped in there. Why was I researching this? I really needed a break, maybe call that cute girl who'd given me her number from the last case. What was her name? Mary?

In the background of my contemplation was Irene and Sherlock speaking rapid fire French about something that made Irene continually burst out laughing. I supposed it was _funny_ if you spoke French which I decidedly did not. They were waiting for Mycroft to come and arrange for Irene to be whisked away to safety. To pass the time, Irene had started saying things in French that made Sherlock roll his eyes and cough disapprovingly. I assumed they were dirty things. Then he'd started speaking French too. For all I knew they were having French word sex right in front of me.

OK, that thought was slightly hysterical. I needed to calm down. When was Mycroft coming?

"So," I said very loudly, so loud that it made me jump. "Any ideas for baby names?"

They both turned to look at me. "Hmm," Irene said. "What was the title of the second book written by Charlotte Bronte?"

"No idea," I said. "Emma?"

"That's Jane Austen," Sherlock said with authority. Irene looked impressed.

"Retrieving deleted data are we?"

"No," he said sounding bored. "I bought a lot of books for a case. Read them all too. '_Emma_' was one of the highlights."

"Uh," I said trying to think and wanting to at least in the conversation. "Wuthering...Heights?"

"Oh yes," she said nodding seriously. "I just love that name. I was thinking of shortening it to Wuthy High. Classy."

"And that's Emily Bronte, John. Not Charlotte."

I wrinkled my nose. "There's more than one?"

"Oh yes. Anne wrote poems."

"Right, fine. Great. So what _is_ the title of...of that second book?"

"Ah," Sherlock said rising from his chair. "Mycroft and the Territorial Army are here."

I turned to look out of the window and saw he was, of course, correct. Mycroft stayed inside the car, which looked pretty much normal except I guessed it was one of those cars a bomb could hit and wouldn't even scratch the paint.

"Well then," Irene said. "That's me off." She came over to me and bent down over the desk. "Bye, John. Don't lose hope," she added with a wink. And before I could say anything, as bloody usual, she was going out the door with Sherlock.

I looked out of the window and watched Sherlock pat her awkwardly on the shoulder once making her laugh again. She leaned in and kissed his cheek and then got into the car. Then she was gone.

During the time that it took for Sherlock to get back up the stairs, I quickly typed into Google, _'Charlotte Bronte's second novel.'_

"So," I said as Sherlock came back into the room. "Shirley, huh?"

He smirked. "As if, John. Even she's not that cruel."

I felt oddly...displaced all of a sudden. "Did you see her off OK?"

"Weren't you watching out the window?" she asked from the kitchen. "Ah, my blood cells have coagulated!"

"No, I was not!" I shot back irritably. "You didn't tell me she was pregnant by the way!"

He looked up from his experiment, confused. "Should I have?"

I gritted my teeth. "Yes, that's the polite thing to do."

"Oh, well. I'll file that then," resuming his interest in the nastiness in Petri dishes.

"You do that," I said, shutting the laptop harder than was necessary. I was feeling very put out for some reason that I couldn't identify. "I'm going to go out."

"Get more Babybels while you're out," Sherlock said from the kitchen. "If possible."

"You can't have eaten them already?" I asked, amazed and annoyed at the same time.

"I got peckish," he said with a shrug.

"Fine, but if you're going to actually start eating again we'll need more than my puny income. We need to find a case."

He looked up, amused. "That's usually my line."

_'I know_,' I thought, but didn't say it. He didn't seem to want to find a case any more. Content to stay inside and become a full time scientist.

I decided to give Lestrade a call.

* * *

"_Honestly, John. There isn't much going at the minute that needs his kind of attention. There's been a murder, but it's nothing mysterious. She was killed horribly though, the poor girl."_

I sighed and felt a headache coming. Calling Lestrade was so far not yielding the results I wanted. It was nice to be outdoors though, even just sitting on a bench in a busy road.

"Is that it? He needs something to get him out of the house."

"_John, maybe he needs to see someone. I've noticed he's not exactly himself lately."_

"What he needs is a case," I said trying to convince both him and myself at the same time.

A pause. _"Has he said he's bored then?"_

"Yes," I lied. "He's bored out of his mind."

"_Really,_" he said not sounding the least bit like he believed me. _"Well if he wants to give this one a go, he's welcome to. But I have to warn you, it seems fairly standard. She was murdered in an alleyway off of Pommel Way. Evidence a-plenty points to a drunken gang."_

That wouldn't interest him remotely. Worth a try though. "What was her name?"

"_Marianne Nichols."_

"Alright, well thanks for that anyway, Greg," I said. "See you later."

"_Bye, mate._"

* * *

When I arrived back home, the first thing I noticed was that there was a repugnant smell absolutely everywhere, despite the fact that the windows were open. It quite literally took my breath away and I started coughing violently.

"Sherlock!" I called out between coughs. "Are you alive?"

"Yes, yes," he said quite calmly, sweeping into the living room. "Sorry about the smell. It should clear soon."

I gagged. "How soon?"

"A few hours."

"Oh my God. I can't bear it. Do you want to go out for dinner?"

He cocked his head, considering. "What shall we have?"

"Seriously, I don't care if they're serving roasted garbage, I cannot stay here another second."

He pulled his coat on over his clothes. I hoped the smell wouldn't cling to him too badly. "You're overreacting. It's not that bad. Although I'll remember not to mix putrescine and hydrogen sulfide again."

"Please do," I said through my hands. "Can we go now?"

We went to a pub first; I insisted. It had been an oddly tough morning and despite it being so early, I really wanted a drink. Sherlock agreed sulkily and we sat at a nice corner table in a pub I liked.

One beer down, I already felt more relaxed. Sherlock had thus far not touched his cranberry juice and was glancing around the place with a mild kind of revulsion.

"This is the place brain cells are murdered," he said after a few minutes. "This is where knowledge comes to die."

I snorted into my pint. Trust him to take such a literal offence at the very thought of alcohol.

"Some brain cells should die and never return," I said patiently awaiting his fierce rebuttal.

"Why?"

"Because it's nice not to think all the time; sometimes it's just nice to relax and alcohol helps you do that."

He gave me a look. "So does heroin."

"Yes, well. We make do with what we can. Besides, it's not like it's absinthe or anything. Beer is only 4.5%."

"That seems ridiculously low for such an expensive drink," he pointed out. "Maybe you should try absinthe and get your money's worth."

"No place sells it any more."

"Actually, most of them do. You usually have to wait until closing time and ask specifically for it."

I gaped. "How would you know that?"

He shrugged. "No idea."

I started to grin. "Did you have some wild Uni days then? Hanging out with the green fairy?"

I expected a harsh denial, but instead he nodded. "Yes, it was during a period in my life where I attempted to gain a little relaxation myself, as you put it. It rarely worked though; I usually hallucinated spiders the size of lamp posts and vomited black liquid."

"Oh," I said, brought up short by his sudden admission. "I've never tried it myself."

He gave me a small smile. "Lucky you."

"Well I want to try it now!" I said rather petulantly. "Do you think they'll have it here?"

He glanced around, doing that _thing_. Taking in everything he needed to answer correctly.

"This is a bar frequented by off duty police officers and other officials. So, no. I'm afraid your chances are non-existent."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "Did you just make that up so I won't have any?"

He was about to reply, when my name was called from across the bar.

"John Watson!"

I looked behind me and saw a large group of men, most of them in suits. I scanned them for the one who had called my name and saw the second familiar face of the day.

"Blimey," I said, standing up. "Adam Chapman!"

He left his group and came over to me. "John bloody Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. How the hell are you?"

He shook my hand vigorously. I couldn't believe it was him; he looked great too. Tanned and healthy, nice suit. It had been years since I'd seen him. The last time I'd seen him, there had been much more sand.

"I'm good, mate. Really good. How about you?"

"Yeah, great. Got a cushy job in intelligence over at a certain building at Vauxhall Cross. God, haven't seen you in years! Your shoulder heal up OK? Of course it did, you look great!"

"Ahem."

I realised I had left Sherlock sitting at our table.

"Ah, Adam this is my friend Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Adam."

Sherlock stood up and offered his hand with a smile he reserved for, _Must Be Polite Because It's Important To John_. Adam shook it and laughed.

"That's one hell of a great name," he said.

"Thank you," Sherlock said giving him a once over and I prayed he wasn't going to do what I thought he was going to do. "So, you and John know one another from Afghanistan?"

I thanked whatever God was up there that he was in a generous mood.

"Yeah," Adam said with a chuckle. "This guy was always around to save your arse. Never guess who I ran into today. Bloody Sea-bass! He looked pretty shocked to see me, actually. Have you spoken to him lately?"

I faltered for a moment, confused. "He's in London? I didn't know that."

"Yeah," Adam said earnestly. "Saw him yesterday getting in a car just outside Baskin Robbins. Couldn't talk for long, but I gathered that he's been in London for years. I thought he might have looked you up, you two being pretty close and all."

"I literally had no idea he was even in the UK. Let alone frequenting places ten seconds from my door."

Beside me, Sherlock gasped suddenly.

"What?" I asked, suddenly concerned. "What is it?"

"You OK mate?" Adam asked.

Oh God. Sherlock was doing that, '_I've figured out something so monumentally huge that explaining it to you would take too much time'_ thing. But he didn't look remotely smug like he usually did. He blinked quickly and turned to Adam.

"What was his name?"

"Who, Sea-Bass?"

"I'm assuming he has a human name too?"

"Sebastian Moran. Why, do you know him?"

* * *

_A/N - Hey guys, sorry this took a little while to put up, but it is a little longer to make up for it hopefully. Also, I went with John's POV because it was irresistible, hope no-one is too put off. It will be primarily Sherlock's POV overall. _

_Anyway, really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews you've left and please do leave more, I literally live for them. _

_Love Bex_

_x x x_


	4. Chapter 4: The Rip Tide

**-Chapter Four: The Rip Tide-**

**Sherlock**

It had been like that ever since I could remember. One of my very first memories as a child was beating my Grandfather at chess in three moves, confounding him completely. I was four. It never felt unusual or abnormal. It was who I was, inside and out. It didn't take practise or memory exercises. It did not require classes on how to read body language. The ability was deeply encoded into the bones of who I was, right down to every last cell. Sometimes it felt like being able to see through a wall that no-one else could, no matter how hard I tried to show them. So many hundreds of things to look at, to see and study. Maps, way-points, post-its, cliffs notes, secrets and stories splashed about literally everywhere. The life history of a person dotted messily about his clothes. The very character of a person summed up in one shaky smile. Murder made transparent, lies translated into damning truth. Motives worn on sleeves. Methods scrawled messily across foreheads. Clear as day and always calling out for my attention.

But some things did not call out to me. These were usually the things that other people saw a dozen times a day and chided me for not seeing. A strange reversal. Like showing tact to someone who was clearly distraught. Like being mindful of the feelings of others. Like knowing when someone was being sarcastic. Like knowing when someone was in love. The signals and signposts for these things evaded me entirely, leaving me lost in a world where everyone else had a roadmap.

Very occasionally, I was able to discern when I was going to stumble head first into a lot of trouble for saying or doing something insensitive. It was rare, but it did happen. Only ever with John. It was happening then, as I stood in that pub, lips parted and heart beating hard in my chest with painful realisation.

When the pieces clicked together, they had given me a rush of bitter-sweet euphoria the likes I had not felt nor wanted to feel since the first time James Moriarty had sent me five pips.

The sniper, the bomb rigger, Moriarty's right hand man. Crack shot, _just like John._ Steady hands when in combat, _just like John_. No shaking on the laser beam. The bomb was rigged with military precision. A man following me, so close to home. John's friend who hadn't tried to contact him, but must have known he was in London due to publicity if nothing else, had been in London for years. John's friend from the service. John's friend who was twenty feet from where we lived the other day.

Nowhere near enough data for it be concrete of course. Not at all, nothing but a theory; must wait and gather more data. Must ignore gut feeling and rely on facts, more facts.

And then I realised that telling John this would be painful, even devastating for him to hear. The rare and elusive road sign telling me to tread carefully. I couldn't tell him. I mustn't tell him.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're OK?"

"Of course," I said smoothly, making the transition from exhilaration to nonchalance in a second. "Got ahead of myself. Too many Babybels."

John's friend was smiling like I was funny. John however was giving me a slanty eyed look of pure suspicion and disbelief. "Oh really?" he dead-panned. "You just gasped and demanded to know Sebastian Moran's name for no reason other than a cheese high?"

"What the hell is a cheese high?" Adam asked, bemused. Adam; _openly bisexual, strong and caring, slight gambling problem cured by years in service. Bad relationship with parents but a strong one with his siblings – one sister, two brothers – and had recently stated an online relationship with someone in Wales. _"Is it wrong that I want one?"

John gave his friend a grin. "He's got a thing about bloody Babybels at the minute and it's all he eats. He is, however, _not_ having a cheese high at the minute."

I scoffed dramatically. "How would you know? You don't even like cheese."

"Why did you just have what appeared to be a moment of realisation?" he asked me, watching me carefully.

There was nothing else I could say without making myself too obvious and John was absolutely _not_ stupid. He would doubtlessly figure it out given enough time.

"So," I said turning my attention to his friend Adam. "How's the boyfriend in Wales?"

* * *

It really should have been an ordinary night, an ordinary walk home and an ordinary night spent at home. Everything indicated that normality was afoot and little else. But then, these were the times when the unexpected liked to strike, catching me utterly unawares.

The walk home was pleasant, at least. The air was cold and crisp, London buzzing all around us. I had broken down for the sake of appeasing John and had two lager shandy's which had done nothing but make me feel slightly more relaxed, although I told him there were no effects whatsoever. We were discussing Mrs Hudson's late husband and I was telling John why I had helped ensure he was executed.

"What an absolute bastard," John said with a shake of his head. "He deserved to die twice over for that. Who could hurt Mrs Hudson? She's like a _kitten_."

And then of course, the nicely thought out plan I'd been relying on imploded into a million pieces as for the second time that night someone called out John's name from behind us.

"John! John Watson!"

Instinct, long since ingrained upon me, rose up like a cat sensing a mouse and I knew without looking that I would turn and see the man from the picture and that John would identify him as...

"Sea-bass! Oh my God!"

It took everything I had to completely contain myself and devise an impenetrable visage of mild interest and surprise. Useless, of course. His appearance was nothing less than evidence of some kind of extensive surveillance around John and myself. Perhaps even better than that my so called brother saw fit to install. He'd heard us talking in the pub, even seen it.

He knew I knew. He knew John did not.

"John bloody Watson!" the attractive blonde man said as John went to him. They met, unexpectedly, with a fierce hug. An unpleasant pang of jealousy shot through me that I repressed viciously. "I don't believe it!"

The hug lingered for four seconds before they parted and even then, Moran held John only at shoulder length, hands gripping tightly on his upper arms.

Once my jealousy dissipated, my mind went into overdrive, scanning and analysing.

_Tall; 6 foot 3. Blonde short hair, recently cut. Well aged, early 40's. Clothes chosen to appear casual. Shoes saying otherwise. Far too expensive for the jeans and shirt he was wearing. He threw this appearance together quickly. Panicked perhaps at the interference of Adam and my realisation. No gun, no weapon. Two phones, one in each pocket. Clothes were new, previously unworn. Sexuality unclear. _

He was methodical, organised, patient. Lethal, dangerous and utterly ruthless. Everything John could be had he not the kindness of his own nature. He was clever, too. He hadn't looked at me once yet. Focused on John entirely. There was happiness in his eyes. Even a little love.

All fake. All generated for an ulterior motive.

"I really can't believe it!" Moran was saying with too much enthusiasm. "I got a call from Adam Chapman earlier and I came to the pub looking for you but it was shut. I thought I'd catch a cab home and here you are!"

I was grudgingly impressed. His acting was flawless. Part of me was genuinely excited to see his next move. Another part of me really wanted him to let go of John.

"I didn't even know you were in London either until Adam told me," John said, a little too starry eyed for my liking. "God, why didn't you look me up? I had no idea you were out of action."

"Ah," Moran said with cheerful regret. "Got shot in the stomach. Sent me home with a pat on the back and a nice therapist."

_That's it. Show John you're in the same boat he was, show him he can help you. Make him want to. _

"I've been there, mate," John said exactly as I expected. Moran looked behind John then, to me. The moment was slightly electrifying, but not in any kind of good way. I felt a little panicked, like I wanted to be back inside Baker Street.

'_Get a grip,'_ I told myself. _'This is who you are. This is what you do!'_

"Who's your friend?" Moran asked pleasantly.

"Oh, sorry," John said, pulling himself back from Moran's grasp. "Sherlock, this is Sebastian Moran. Sea-bass, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes."

Moran moved forward hand extended with a beaming, _Any Friend of John's, _smile. I knew I should feel at least a little bit more thrilled than I did; a new enemy, someone smart, someone with a plan. Instead, I felt sick and uneasy. Maybe it was because he knew John, that he had John in a vulnerable position which he would no doubt expose.

I gave him my hand in turn and squeezed tightly.

"Whoa," Moran said jokily. "Strong hand."

I gave him a thin smile. "Nice to meet you in person. I've heard so much about you."

He smiled earnestly. "I haven't heard a thing about you, but it's nice to meet you too."

Such a perfect façade. He turned back to John.

"So, whereabouts are you staying? Only ask because I've got a day off tomorrow and wondered if you fancied a catch-up?"

For some reason, John gave me an odd look and didn't reply to his friend for a good few seconds.

"Actually, I've got a really early start tomorrow Sea-bass, but I'll give you my number and we can catch up another night if that's OK?"

Moran grinned. "Sure, no problem."

They exchanged numbers, joking about something I didn't understand. When they were finished, the hugged again just like the first time. My stomach tightened. Then they parted ways.

"Well," John said after a few minutes of silent walking. "That was a coincidence, eh?"

"Not really, Adam called him to inform him of your presence here and he came to find you."

"I meant more that a guy who used to be my best friend in the service turned out to be the sniper."

I stumbled gracelessly. "What?"

John rolled his eyes. "You really think I'm an idiot don't you? I saw your bloody face in the pub. Moran's a well trained sniper; he had an unbeatable shot. He was proficient in bombs and explosives. He's been here for years, undoubtedly reading papers and such, but never contacting me once. Adam mentions him tonight and he's running up the street behind me? Seems a little fishy, even to my dull, placid mind."

It was definitely wrong that I was slightly turned on.

"But...I thought..."

John chuckled. "You thought I'd be dazzled by his return and he'd make it impossible for you to convince me that he's anything other than my friend. You thought I'd be loyal to him over you."

I said nothing, staring at the man I was painfully in love with as he completely blew me out of the water.

"Has the great Sherlock Holmes underestimated someone?" he teased gently. "Don't feel too bad. There's also the fact that while you were in the loo back at the pub, I asked Adam for his number and he said he didn't have it. That kind of gave him away."

There was a determined blush creeping up my neck. I _had_ underestimated him.

"It won't happen again," I told him. "I won't underestimate you again."

His smile went to his eyes. "Don't be silly. He gave _himself_ away. But you should know...my loyalty is always to you. No matter what. If you killed someone, I'd help you bury the body."

Again, it was _wrong_ to be so turned on by that. But I definitely was. Very much so. What would happen if I just leaned in and placed my lips on his? Kissed him under a lamppost and made him see that we could be so good together? Every fibre in my being wanted it to badly I could taste it.

But he seemed to sense at least some small portion of my thoughts. He broke the moment, if indeed it was one, with a laugh. "C'mon, let's go home and have tea. Oh, and I forgot to tell you. There's a low urgency case Lestrade wants you to have a look at. A murdered girl."

I rolled my eyes. "Sounds like a milk run."

John smirked. "You never go for milk."

* * *

A week later life had escalated to a point where I found myself looking back fondly at my crushing boredom. Days spent inside the flat with nothing to do but concoct potentially lethal experiments. Hours of nothingness, no people crowding around me. No pressure. There may have been some genuine truth in John's diagnosis of what was wrong with me. Ordinarily a case like this would have made me nothing less than ecstatic. Indeed, cases like that had used to be my reason d'etre.

A talented copycat was re-enacting the Ripper murders with a slight twist of his own; at the scene of the bodies there were clues hinting at how we might find the next girl he was holding captive, before she was killed.

It was everything I should have wanted and more. Truthfully, I found myself working hard to even build up the momentum to succeed at being remotely helpful, let alone enjoy it. I had never known myself less, never been so plagued with uncertainty.

There were so far two versions of the same girl from the cases found dead, giving us an extra chance each time so it seemed. Each of the two girls was similarly named: Marianne Nichols and Mary Annabel Nichols had been found dead a day apart, in different areas of London. Throat cut twice, several stab wounds to the abdomen. Both girls were only reported missing one day before they were found, indicating they were taken and held over night before they were killed. The first hint was found on the body of Mary Annabel; a small portion of red brick dust and a dog biscuit. Marianne had been processed before I was involved and so any evidence went with her and evaded the eyes of London's finest.

The evidence led me, and consequently Scotland Yard, to refurbished warehouse that had been made into living spaces and art gallery's. The Spratt's Complex had used to be a dog biscuit factory. We found the room where a girl had been held, but was no longer there. There was evidence of a chair in the middle of the room, a bucket placed beneath the chair which had no seat. Some kind of make-shift toilet, to which she was tied. Other than that, the room was entirely clean. The records indicated that it was rented by a lady who upon closer inspection, had died thirty years ago. The rent was paid in cash by mail and no-one saw a single person come or go.

The third girl was found hours after our all too late discovery. Rhianne Chapman was found dead in an alleyway in broad daylight; throat slashed and cut open. She had been disembowelled, intestines spread over her own body. Her uterus was gone. The wounds were precise and knowing. There was hardly any blood at the crime scene; she'd been killed elsewhere and moved. No witnesses. Later enquiries revealed that her friends and family called her Anne.

The clues were there again. A fairly fresh apple core and a bus ticket to Covent Garden.

The whole of Scotland yard was crawling over every café, bar and restaurant in Covent Garden in less than ten minutes after finding the evidence. After four hours of nothing and with light fading fast I forced myself to think harder and the answer popped in there like it had been waiting for me make effort. The Apple Store.

The so called 'Geniuses' were extremely offended and upset that they were being invaded by the entire police force of London, but their stockroom proved to have housed and imprisoned the next Anne Chapman for at least nine hours without them knowing it.

The media got hold of it almost immediately. The next day it was all over the front pages of everything.

_The Ripper Rip Off._ How inventive.

The girl was found in yet another alleyway around 12:45pm that day. The same brutal murder. The same method; killed elsewhere and then brought to that location. Anna Chapman, reported missing only yesterday. Lestrade put out very public warnings to anyone with names similar to the canonical five women murdered by Jack the Ripper. Elizabeth Stride was the next name on the list.

More clues on the body of Anna Chapman and beside it.

Limestone, tin and copper. An old, well used sports stopwatch.

The police went straight to the Olympic Park in Stratford. This time I insisted they were wrong. Lestrade gave me a small team of my own to work with and told me to keep it quiet.

I took the team, John and myself to Big Ben. She had been there _minutes_ before we arrived. Chains this time, attached the railings around the actual bell. Minute traces of chloroform. No toilet set up. There were scuffs on the dust, recent ones. A maintenance man was already there and when questioned upon how long ago he had arrived he revealed only minutes before us, indicating we were much closer than we had been before and that she was possibly alive somewhere, but not for long.

Lestrade pulled his team of idiots from the Olympic Stadium and began scouring every inch of London that they could reach.

She was found dead, but still warm behind a row of bins in an alley. Throat slit once, no other injuries. Lizzy Strider Not even reported missing.

This time there seemed to be no clues whatsoever. John and I had the crime scene entirely to ourselves and nothing seemed to be out of place. Nothing on her body, to be sure. Nothing discernible yet without forensic and microscopic assistance but all the others had had obvious clues left either besides or on top of them. All this poor girl had near her was a depressingly faded McDonald's cheeseburger wrapper.

Then it clicked. The paper was old, _very_ old. Faded so much it was hardly recognisable in fact. I had it rushed to a lab for testing. The results showed it had nothing of interest on it, but that the paper was in fact nearly forty years old.

Oddly enough, Lestrade figured it out. The first British McDonald's had opened in 1974 in Woolwich.

This time we found the girl alive in the cellar of the fully operational McDonald's in Woolwich. She was chloroformed heavily, found inside a large crate. She was untouched and remembered nothing. Beth Stride had been saved.

The media could talk of nothing else. It was international news; John said everyone on Earth was talking about it. _I _had saved her, apparently. A hero again. I wished it was the end, but knew it was anything but. I wanted to go home, away from everything and be able to breathe again.

* * *

"We just got a call," Lestrade said reading from a notepad. "Mrs Eddowes thinks her daughter, Kate, has been taken. Said she was supposed to meet her for lunch but as of two minutes ago is an hour late."

John nodded frantically. "Catherine Eddowes. The next on the list." It had been days since he'd showered, let alone shaved. He looked so different from his usual clean cut, Doctor self. Lestrade looked worse; huge shadows under his eyes representing nothing more than an hour of sleep at a time. I had yet to look in a mirror since this had begun, but I had no doubt I too looked worse for wear. I was so tired, it must have showed. I had _never_ been this tired and unfocused. It was hard to even take in basic facts all around me. I tried to recall numbers I had seen that day and realised I couldn't.

"No clues, though," I pointed out trying and failing to get comfortable in stiff chair of Lestrade's office. "No clues because we saved the last one."

"A sick trade off," John said angrily. "But we can use this. Saturate the media with this girl's face, can't we?"

"We can," Lestrade said with hesitation. "But that can't be our only point of attack. So far there hasn't been a single witness to any of these murders or of the girls being held. If this guy can get a girl into the basements of a London McDonald's, he can do anything without being seen. No CCTV, nothing."

"What can we do then?" John asked, voice rough with desperation. I _felt_ them both turn to look at me for answers I simply did not have.

I tried to draw strength from their faith in me, but all I felt was worn and homesick. There was no faith in my abilities; I was simply not myself, unable to access whatever brilliance had once made me stand out from everyone else. Pathetic. I had lost the only good thing about me. Sad, broken and _pathetic_.

I gave up on the obscenely uncomfortable chair and stood instead.

"The locations seem random thus far, but there must an underlying pattern somewhere," I said in what I hoped was an authoritative voice. "Also sending a message to businesses in London to check all stock rooms and back rooms is wise."

"This guy likes to get away with it right under our noses," John said in agreement. "Showing off."

I could practically feel concern radiating off of him. Everyone knew that canonically Catherine Eddowes had been penultimately killed in a particularly brutal way, though not anything like the last one.

I knew I should be figuring this out. This was the case of a lifetime; my brain should have been in overdrive. But I could barely function, my mind was slow and my instinct dulled by the distraction of wanting badly to go home and be safely hidden away from everything. I was certain, in fact, that I would be of much more use in a consulting capacity from home; wirelessly involved.

"OK, I'll make the announcement now," Lestrade said in a voice laced with exhaustion. He left us both alone. "Thanks, Sherlock. John."

John came and stood beside me; I looked out of the window at the grey, vastness that was London. "I know this is hard," he said quietly. "I know how much you're struggling, but we _literally_ cannot do this without you." He placed his hand on my arm and I looked at him, terrified of seeing disappointment. Instead there was support and understanding. A part of me was disgusted with myself for even needing it, but generally I felt relieved. "I'll be here for whatever you need. Please, do your best."

"I will, John," I said softly. "I _am_."

"You can beat this," he said with soft determination and I knew he wasn't only talking about the Ripper Reboot (as was the new name according to _The Sun). _"We can do it together."

I felt a little better, more focused even. Nowhere near enough, but still it was something.

* * *

It wasn't enough. She was found mutilated in Trafalgar Square, dressed like a homeless woman, covered in a shawl, sitting with her back against Nelson's Column. Hundreds of people had walked past her, assuming she was asleep. Only when the blood began to pool did anyone notice. Her injuries were horrific and kept from the press as much as possible.

I had failed. How was it that two weeks ago my concern was buying romance novels?

My world was disintegrating as the real world was watching me, waiting for me to save the day. I was falling to pieces and everyone around me, including John saw it. _I couldn't save them._ There was going to be another girl torn up like this and I wouldn't be able to stop it. Lives would end because I wasn't strong enough, wasn't _good_ enough anymore.

Enough was enough. _Fuck_ falling to pieces, _fuck_ failing, _fuck_ being broken.

There was a solution at hand and I was going to take it, regardless of consequences.

* * *

"You said if I sold to you, I'd get my balls put in a blender and served as a meat milkshake," said a resentful looking lowlife named Tyson. "Your friend said the same." He fit in perfectly with our surroundings. A vile, filthy flat with damp in all corners and the prevalent smell of piss. Surely drug deals could afford a decent place in this day and age, what with prices having rocketed up.

"Now it's the other way around," I said with menace. "Listen, I've got three grand. Give me your best and you'll never see me again after."

Despite the situation, Tyson snickered as he unlocked a metal box. "That's what they all say."

* * *

It should have been a big deal; some kind of moment where I stared at the needle for a long time, considering the repercussions. Thinking about how much John had gone through getting me off this the last time. How I had promised, sworn never to do this to him and myself ever again. It should have been a moment worthy of hesitation, even.

Except it wasn't.

It was ridiculously easy and the effect was powerfully instantaneous. Like a bright beam of light bursting through fog and mist. It felt _incredible_ to be thinking fast again, to have a million facts at my fingertips. To be able to see so clearly, _think_ clearly. I felt strong, capable, brilliant again. I was going to stop this person and save those girls. I could save the world if I wanted to.

I decided that it was going to be easier to carry two bottles at all times complete with kit. I was going to be on the move constantly and would need to have ready access to it. A simply necessity as part of good planning.

By the time I arrived back at Scotland Yard, the forensics team was done with the most recent clues. I met Lestrade and John in the main office, studiously avoiding looking at either of them, The report was on the table.

Three piles of powder, all different. Chalk, gunpowder and powdered eggs.

Chalk – _common, not a deciding factor without the other two. _ Gunpowder – _battle grounds, cannons, ammunition. _ Powdered eggs – _of course. _

Food rations during WWII. Air raids, air raid _shelters_. Chalk mine, ammunition storage, air raid shelter. So simple, almost too easy. A treasure map constructed by a child.

Chislehurst Caves.

"She's in Chislehurst Caves," I said suddenly, destroying the nervous silence that had been surrounding me. Lestrade jumped beside me, he had been reading the report over my shoulder.

"Bloody hell, that was quick. Are you sure?"

"Yes. Move," I said and swept past him. John followed me out of the room and down the hallway, jogging to keep up.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Chrislehurst Caves were home to chalk, gun powder and hungry people huddling in an air raid shelter," I said, not slowing down in the slightest. Behind me, Lestrade was yelling at people and telling them the location.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," he said firmly, yanking my arm to make me stop. "You're using again."

"Lock me up, then," I said dismissively, pulling myself from his grip and moving backwards, fiercely pushing down all the _crap_ that was hurting inside. I'd had quite enough of that, thank you very much. "Have Lestrade arrest me. Good luck identifying the last two by anything less than dental records."

John said nothing after that, but my newly rejuvenated senses felt his eyes on me the whole way there.

* * *

The caves were closed for the day by the time we got there, but I knew in my gut that we had made it. I had pieced together the clues so quickly, we must have.

She _was_ alive, hidden and drugged just like Beth Stride. There was a clue left nearby. He knew I would find her this time. I was so ferociously alive, burning with anticipation to unravel this next clue. It was like being blind for so long and then regaining eyesight on a sunny day.

He had left me a single clue. A small orange.

My mind was already whirring, spinning out theories while I accompanied the orange to the lab, having insisted on doing the tests myself. It was on the way to the lab that I heard John and Lestrade having a very heated argument with Scotland Yard's Superintendent.

"You might not be able to tell night from day, but I know you can see it too!" John shouted. "And he's doing it because your lot are incapable of doing anything besides scratching your arses and asking him which way to go!"

"We're doing everything we can," the Superintendent countered angrily. "He's the consulting detective, isn't he? He _wants_ to be here. Couldn't keep him away a few years back from what I gathered."

"And we crucified him for it," Lestrade said, obviously making effort to control his tone. "He did nothing but save lives and help us, and we betrayed him to the media and forced him to go into hiding for over a year."

The Superintendent laughed cruelly. "No one _made _him fake his own death. He's lucky we didn't charge him for it."

"Look, I don't give a shit what you have to tell yourself," John said, voice rising alarmingly. "He is sick! He needs help, not...not this! You can't put this on him and make him responsible for the outcome."

"Doctor Watson," the Superintendent said coldly. "_You_ can feel free to leave whenever you want. Mr Holmes on the other hand is being useful to us and as it's a matter of life and death, I'm going to ignore your whiny request to '_lay off of him'._ We need him. You know it and so does everyone."

John laughed bitterly. "You can't rely on him forever. Aren't you supposed to do some actual police work yourself, sometimes? You haven't even been here once before today! He needs help, he's barely coping as it is for Christ's sake!"

"Just until it's over."

John let out a rather inhuman growl. "This will never be over. There's _always_ something around the corner."

"Well then give him what he needs!" the Superintendent sneered, spiteful amusement rife in his voice. "Everyone says you're his _fluffer_, per se. Do what you need to in order to keep his mind focused on more ah...pleasurable thoughts."

There was a sudden scuffle, a yelp and Lestrade was yelling at John to stop.

"_John! _It's not worth it, come on mate, leave it!"

"Get him under control, Lestrade or get him out!" the Superintendent wheezed. "I'll let it go this time, as he seems to be necessary to our bloody divining rod!"

"You can go fuck yourself," John said with deadly calm. "I know it in Chinese now, if you want some variety."

The Superintendent thudded away down the corridor.

"Christ, John!" Lestrade rebuked. "You're more mental than Sherlock!"

John laughed bitterly. "Give it another week and I severely doubt it." He paused for a moment before continuing, voice lower than before. "He can't keep doing this, Greg. He isn't coping and it's making him physically and mentally ill. I know it's my fault, I should have done something sooner but...I never thought this was going to turn into the fucking case of the century!"

"None of us did," Lestrade said. "I didn't even twig on the first name."

"Sherlock did. He got it right away."

"Which is why we need him," Lestrade said quietly. "Even run down and ill, he's a hundred times better than anyone I've got. _That_ fat bastard has been AWOL all week, until now. We need Sherlock or we're going to lose and let those girls die."

John sighed, "I know. He's using again, just to be more helpful to us."

Lestrade groaned. "I knew it."

"I don't know what to do."

"Be there for him, John. Whatever he needs."

"So you think I'm his fluffer too?"

"What? No! Of course not, I'm just saying that you're the only one who can help him."

"I'm joking, Greg. I'll do my best, of course I will. I just wish I could do more. I know I _could_ but..."

I didn't want to hear any more. I coughed loudly and swept down the corridor with a blank expression, quickly putting paid to the painful conversation.

* * *

The orange turned out to be a Seville orange, a particularly bitter and sour fruit used primarily for marmalade. As soon as I told John this, his eyes lit up.

"Paddington!" he yelped. "PADDINGTON!"

"The station?" I queried, slightly confused by his sudden outburst.

"Paddington Bear ate nothing but marmalade! That's got to be it, right?"

It was enough to go on for me and definitely for Lestrade. We arrived at Paddington Station and began scouring every inch that we could. The area was evacuated entirely as per Lestrade's orders. Nothing stood out, nothing called to me. My eyes scanned a million things, but there was no sudden rush of understanding.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called over. "What about the Orange shop?"

"Check it," I said. "But it's too predictable." My mind was racing; Paddington Station was big, there was only a limited time and so many cameras everywhere. A train station should be the worst and last place to hide someone...

SEVILLE ORANGE

OVERSEEING ALL

Cameras. CCTV. The security office.

I spun around. "The security office!" I yelled and everyone came to a standstill "Where is it?"

One of the older DC's knew where it was and he led the way. I ran there as fast as I could, Lestrade and John in tow. We reached the door; huge and made entirely of steel. I was about to open it, but something felt _wrong_. My instincts, freshly awakened, flared up intensely.

"Is it locked?" Lestrade demanded, panting. "What's the hold up?"

"Something's wrong," John said watching me. "The door. Is it rigged?"

"Maybe," I said. "There's light coming from under the door, even though the place is cleared of all personnel. Someone in there is breathing."

"So that means she's in there, right?"

"It was an anagram," I said, bending down to examine the door. Steel, electronic locking device. "The words Seville orange were an anagram of overseeing all."

"And?" Donovan piped up from somewhere behind Lestrade.

"It's too easy. _You_ could have figured it out. He wanted us to come running here and burst open the door. She's inside here, this door is rigged somehow to kill her if we burst it open."

"Jesus," John said rubbing his eyes. "How do we get in."

"Call Mycroft and get him to send us an EMP," I said thinking quickly. "And fast."

"What the hell is an EMP?" Donovan asked.

"Shut it and call him!" I snapped. "Lestrade. Get people on the roof with a drill. They need to be ready to come from above if the door doesn't spring."

"Why can't we come in through the roof to begin with?"

"We know nothing about the device or it's trigger. Better safe than sorry, right? Get the EMP."

* * *

It was a good thirty two minutes for Mycroft to clear the use of the device and he let me know that despite my good intentions, this was seriously going to cause trouble for him. EMP's were supposed to be the stuff of film fiction, really. Ah well. Needs must.

"There's no need to stand back," I said impatiently to all the people who were creeping away from the impressive looking device. "Unless you have a pacemaker, you'll be fine."

"In four, three, two, one!"

It gave of a very high pitched sound, growing louder by the second until a burst of light emanated from the core and the steel door clicked gently open.

I held my breath and peered through the crack.

The girl was inside and attached to her were dozen of small wires, all over her body. She was tied to a table; one arm on each leg. She was naked and heavily drugged. Each of the wires were attached to the door as I had suspected. The wires that lead to her body, fed into what looked like very small packages of Semtex, each the size of a fingernail. Not enough to kill her with a single one, but enough to punch a hole her body the size of a...well, the size of an orange. There were twenty eight wires and packages attached to her. The door opened in.

"Bomb squad," I said indicating for them to come and observe. "She has twenty eight small Semtex explosives attached to her body in various places. They seem to have been de-activated by the EMP as they were linked to the door."

They nodded and carefully entered the room one by one.

Everyone moved back and waited. I couldn't stop thinking. Why had he changed the rules this time? The holding place was never the place they died. Something had happened to make him angry, maybe? No. Excited. Stepping up the game. Like Moriarty. A lot like Moriarty in fact.

The link was undeniable, but not something useful at this point. I was almost certain that these killings were the work of Moran; Moriarty's right hand man in all things. It was almost like a signature.

"Clear!" the squad yelled. "Medics!"

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. I could feel no relief, only buzzing in my ears. There was still one more girl left to die in this act. Paddington had been too easy. The calm before the storm.

"Let me see her," John said, moving past the medical team.

After another minute he confirmed she was well enough to be moved.

"Well done," Lestrade said placing a hand on my shoulder. "She's alive because of you."

"Save your relief, Lestrade," I warned him. "This was a warm up."

"For what?"

"The finale."

* * *

Mary Kelly turned out to be the first girl to actually remember something. She remembered trying to call the police because she was certain someone was following her. She'd heard the news, knew her name was on the list of potential victims. She'd gone into a café to call again from her mobile. Nice and public, she'd thought. Then everything had vanished, she said. She woke up and found herself in hospital.

The café was extensively examined. No-one who had been there that day remembered anything out of place. One girl on the tills said she maybe remembered Mary Kelly, but wasn't sure. Absolutely no-one saw her being drugged and carried off. Yet that was where he memories ended. The CCTV recording for that hour was missing.

There was a media frenzy going on all around us. Every girl in Britain named Mary Kelly or something similar was calling up in hysterics. All the police could do was advise them to leave the country. I saw my face on the front of newspapers, but I blocked it out as best I could. It had been a whole week since the successful recovery of Mary Kelly and we were all waiting for the next clue to open itself up, like a flower almost.

It was an email address with a password. _OpenOn071813_12:00am _at live. The password was _misadapt whore_. Another childish anagram of, _'I am the password'. _The inbox and everything else was empty. It was an untraceable account. We were waiting a whole week for something to arrive on the date the address indicated.

During that week John and I had gone through a bad time of things. Unfortunately, so much time in between the chaos had given him all the time he needed to take me to task over what I had chosen to do.

"_How could you do it?" _he had asked me, sounding so broken I could barely stand to listen. _"You swore."_

"_What other choice is there?"_ I'd retaliated fiercely. _"It is a temporary measure to ensure the survival of innocent people."_

"_If you had listened to me before all this and gotten yourself some help..."_

"_Ah, so now it's my fault!"_

"_Of course not, but..."_

"_But what? This is what I need to be able to do my job right now. There's nothing else. This is it!"_

"_And what about after?"_

"_I'll stop."_

_He had looked almost heartbroken. "I've heard that before."_

But now we were on the verge of the final piece of this puzzle. I was burning to know what was on the recording device. Fresh cocaine flooding through my veins giving me everything I needed to hear and deduce whatever I could from the sounds I would soon be hearing.

I decided to go the bathroom and find a few minutes of isolated peace. People around me were starting to irritate me and provide unnecessary distractions.

The bathroom was happily empty for the moment and I stood in front of the sinks, breathing evenly and waiting for the quiet to sink in. While I stood there, I noticed myself in the mirrors on the wall and was shocked to see how unlike myself I looked. I had never exactly looked tanned, but now I was porcelain white; my skin almost translucent in places. Beneath my eyes were what looked like bruises, they were so dark. My lips were bloodless, my eyes almost black with blown pupils. I looked like some kind of demon.

The peace I had sight was torn from me as for the first time since pressing that needle into my skin again, I realised that I was going to have to _stop _at some point. Again. I realised also how I must have looked to everyone, to John.

I looked away. John. John had done so much to help me, to get me off of it and get clean. Sleepless nights, screaming and begging while he held me down and stroked hair off my wet forehead. John who had told me I was better than this, better than anything. John who had lost everything when he thought I'd died. John who no longer knew what to say to help me.

I gripped the basin so hard my knuckles turned white. It was just until this was over, just a little longer. Then I could stop. I _would_ stop.

"Sherlock?" John's voice came through the bathroom door. "Are you in there?"

"It's a public bathroom, John," I said with disturbing evenness. "You can come in."

He laughed softly. "Didn't know if you were in the Mind Palace."

"No," I said, peeling my numb hands away from the sink. "Just...gathering my thoughts."

He came in, wearing one of those God awful jumpers again. Why did he keep buying them and where from? He seemed to notice me looking a smiled wryly.

"They're comfy," he said. "How goes the gathering of thoughts?"

I turned from the mirror. "Well enough, though there's little I can do without the facts."

John glanced at the mirror and then back at me. "You _do_ look terrible."

"Well, thanks," I said sullenly. "You look like woven shit yourself."

He let out a snort of laughter, unwillingly it seemed. After he gathered himself the smile faded from his face and he placed his hand on my shoulder.

"It's going to be OK," he said firmly. "This is nearly over and then...then we can go home."

Home. 221b. Doors and windows and bricks. Cold showers to stave off the fever, nails bending backwards trying to peel off wallpaper to distract from the itching under my skin. Endless tea, bad television. Fluids. Sweating. Bad television. Doors locked. Windows shut. Home.

I somehow forced a smile. "Yes, home."

"We'll do this together," he said. "I'll help you in any way I can."

The thought of what he was implying was making me feel sick, weak with fear. The drug didn't want to leave me, didn't want to be phased out again. My smile was weakening. My mind stepped in helpfully with a snarky remark.

"Great, fancy a quick snog?"

Ah. _Perfect._ Really, Sherlock. Never cease to amaze.

John's arm pulled back quickly, like he'd been burned. He flashed a quick, awkward grin.

"Maybe in the next life," he said in what I knew was supposed to be a jokey way but it fell flat and hurt me deeply. "Anyway, hardly the time for fleeting romance."

I couldn't bear it. "Let's go, it's almost time."

* * *

At 12:01 am a message popped up in the inbox from another email address similar to the first one. There was nothing written in the message, nor the subject line, but there was an attachment. A video file.

When we opened it, it showed immediately that it was CCTV footage. Obviously the missing footage of the hour during which Mary Kelly was taken from the café.

After seven minutes of avid watching, I immediately saw Mary Kelly enter the premises and order a coffee and a baguette. She sat drinking her coffee, scrolling through her phone and occasionally picking at her baguette. All around her were people, sitting and drinking from large cups. No-one was looking at her, no-one was acting suspiciously.

And then six minutes later I, along with everyone else standing behind me, saw who entered the café next.

The Superintendent, unmistakably him simply by his body shape and ridiculous hair cut.

He walked calmly over to the table and sat at the table with Mary Kelly. She looked up once, about to say something but then her face seemed to go lax. It was hard to tell through the low quality footage.

"Fucking hell!" Donovan blurted out. "That's Haines! That's Superintendent Haines!"

"Shhh!" I snapped, watching intently. I couldn't see what Haines was saying or doing as he was faced away from the camera. Then he and Mary Kelly rose up from their seats and after leaving money on the table, they left together as calmly as if they were old friends.

The clip ended and asked us if we wanted to replay it. There was a thick, heavy silence in the air.

"Jesus," Lestrade breathed. "It can't be him."

"You saw him!" someone shrieked from behind. "He did something to her, drugged her or something and she left with him!"

I tried to block out the majority of everything people were saying behind me.

This was a test. I could feel it. There was no way it was the fat, imbecile of a Superintendent who had been masterminding these crimes. It was a test, to see if I would figure it out. There was something about the way the girl's face had gone lax...

Damn it, I couldn't concentrate with all the noise around me. I tried vaguely to remember the last time I had slept and realised I couldn't.

"Shut up!" I shouted suddenly and everyone jumped. "Everyone just...go and be silent somewhere!"

Most people looked to John to see if I should be taken seriously and he nodded. They scattered like mice and I allowed myself to feel an ounce of calm. I just needed...silence.

I could feel myself crashing; sluggishness bleeding into me like sun through curtains. A headache was forming in my temples and I could feel myself slowing down.

Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck. I just needed a little more. A tiny bit more. Yes, that would solve it. Just enough to be going on with.

"_Sherlock_!"

I jumped, unaware that John had been standing right in front of me calling my name.

"Hmm?"

"You're coming down," he said, Doctor's eyes ascertaining my condition with precision. "Way faster than last time. How much are you using a day?"

I shrugged. "Two, three grams."

He blew air through his teeth. "Jesus _Christ_!"

"Spread out through the day," I added as though that somehow made it better.

"That's...way too much, even you know it's too much. You're burning through it like it's fucking sugar!"

John so rarely swore, it seemed to mark the situation as far more grave than it really was.

"It's _temporary!" _I hissed at him, feeling the tips of my fingers start to shake again.

"This is disgusting," he said, looking away. "I can't believe I'm allowing it, let alone helping you."

"How are you helping? Not exactly prepping my arm, are you?"

He flinched, like I'd slapped him. "I might as well. It's my failure, Sherlock. I should have helped you before this. Forced you to listen to me. Forced you to get help."

"I would have refused."

"Hence the word, _Forced_."

"You couldn't."

"I should have tried."

My head was hurting so much. Each time I turned, it throbbed. I _needed_ just a little fix. Then I could figure all of this out. We were so close...

"It's not that bad," I insisted, trying not to jerk my head too fast, lest I cause a tension headache. "Just one more girl to save and then...then we can go home."

He looked me right in the eye. "And then what? Happily ever after? I know how much you're dreading going back home because of what it means. Even if we do manage to save this girl, there's a whole new chapter of hell waiting for us the minute we get our bloody coats off."

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I'm always making so much mess and you're always cleaning it up."

"No, that's not...I didn't mean it like that. I just wish you didn't have to do this. I wish you'd chosen to be a pirate after all. It would have been easier."

"Well, it doesn't change anything. I am emphatically _not_ a pirate and nothing is easy any more. So let's stick to one thing at a time. Let's save this day first and then we'll deal with tomorrow."

* * *

John said nothing when I came back from the bathroom, alert and obviously smug with knowledge. It was almost amusing to see so many professional police officers and detectives waiting anxiously for me to come back. I avoided looking anywhere near John and took a breath.

"Chemical hypnosis," I said loudly, as if introducing myself to a class of students. "It's a brave new world of mind control and most people won't have heard of it, let alone legitimise it but that is what's happening here."

A couple of people actually looked like they were about to put their hands up to ask questions but I glared them down.

"The girls were drugged with whatever chemical compound was used, it seems highly likely that this was administered in a drink. It contains a high accelerant that burns any trace of it from their blood within a certain amount of time, hence why they were all held for some time before being killed."

Lestrade leaned away from the wall, shaking his head. "For those of us who don't speak genius, can I just ask you to slow it down a bit?"

I sighed. "The drink makes the girls highly suggestible; almost in a hypnotic state. They would get up calmly and walk out of whatever shop they were in, follow him to McDonald's or anywhere else without making a scene and then he would drug them with chloroform to keep them asleep while the drug wore off."

Anderson snorted. "That seems a tad elaborate, doesn't it? Why not just grab them off the street and drug them with the chloroform?"

_I would not punch Anderson's teeth into the back of his head. I would not. _

"Yes, but the problem with that amazing, mind blowing technique is that someone always sees _something_. A scuffle of any kind always draws attention. Not to mention someone might have noticed him dragging an unconscious girl up into Big Ben." Anderson opened his mouth to ask another question, but I cut him off. "And before you embarrass yourself further, let me say that this person seems to revel in the elaborate and overblown. Nothing about this is for the simple pleasure of killing. This is a stage to him. It's a masterpiece. He has killed eight women right under the noses of Scotland yard and an absolute media frenzy. He's done it in the heart of the capital of this country and he's done it using one of the best known templates for serial killings of all time."

That seemed to shut him up, at least.

"So, this person has perfected a technique of at least partly based chemical hypnosis. It also accounts for the Superintendents presence in the café without recalling it. This person is moving amongst us, unseen and completely undetected."

"Was he trying to frame Haines?" John asked frowning. "He had to know that would be the thing to tip you off, right?"

I agreed with him, but for the sake of_ (ugh) _'Morale' I simply brushed it off.

"Perhaps it was a mistake. The first sign of genuine arrogance, pride. Always a mistake with serial killers."

John said nothing, but looked away, fully aware that I was lying. I knew his concerns; that this seemed once again to be more about me than anything else. I ignored that too.

A young DI half raised a tentative hand and I nodded.

"How is this a clue for the last girl? There have always been clues haven't there? What's the clue?"

"Well spotted," I said repressing an eye roll which inevitably led the DI to believe it was a genuine compliment. "The clue here is nowhere near as a obvious as the last few have been, especially something as simple as an anagram. I believe the key is this drug and that if we can narrow down on that, we'll find her."

"How?" Lestrade asked.

"I will send out the homeless network to find out everything they can from dealers about something like what we have here, although it's a long shot. I suspect more strongly that this compound is something the killer has at least partly concocted himself. That takes work; equipment, materials. I have a very short list of what chemicals would be at least basically necessary for such a compound. We put out feelers for those chemicals. The drug is the only thing we have to go on. That is the clue."

"You said it was administered through drinks?" John asked.

"Yes," I said already seeing where he was going. "If Haines has been affected by it, then it stands to reason it was a beverage he consumed here. Check his rubbish bins and speak to the cleaner about the possible location of any cups used by him over the last week."

Lestrade coughed. "Do we tell Haines?"

"Of course," I said simply. "Show him the footage first though; he'll refuse to believe it otherwise."

"OK," he said nodding. "Right everyone you heard him. Let's get to work."

The room began to empty, people talking rapidly to one another. I felt a small swell of achievement for the first time in a long time. This was going to work, I could feel it.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said giving me a faint smile. "Thanks so much. We really couldn't do this without you."

"Thank me later," I replied. I was somewhat panicked to see that when he left, that left John and myself alone once again.

Of course he was coming over, massive amounts of disapproval written all over him.

"Do you feel better?" he asked quietly.

I nodded once. "We have a lot to do, John..."

"I know," he interrupted. "I just wanted to see if you were OK."

"Well I am," I said, feeling uncertain that I _was_ if John was questioning it.

"No, you're not."

_No, I was not. _

"You've become a junkie again."

_I had become a junkie again. _

"You're enjoying it too much, I can see it."

_I was enjoying it too much, he could see it. _

"I should have done more to stop you, should have know you'd turn to this."

_He should have done more to stop me, should have known I'd turn to this. _

"You...Sherlock, are you alright? Hey! Sherlock! What the hell did you take? You look like you're going to pass out!"

_I was going to pass out. _

I did.

* * *

_A/N - Hey guys, again very sorry this isn't up as quickly as people would like. As you probably noticed this chapter was hugely different to the previous three in terms of pacing and content, however I hope it was relatively alright to follow. It was supposed to feel overwhelming, as it was for Sherlock. _

_OK. So, all the locations and facts about locations are completely accurate as are the names (obviously) of the Ripper victims. I know this was a chapter crammed full of so much info, but hopefully it was readable (?) as I said, it was supposed to come off very overwhelming. The next few chapters will be from John's POV so that should slow things down a little. _

_And if that was confusing for anyone, yes that was Sherlock under the influence of my utterly fictional chemical hypnosis at the end there. _

_I really hope everyone enjoyed it. I'm already writing the next chapter right now (John's so easy, bless him) and it should be fun for him to deal with a completely suggestible Sherlock. _

_Apologies for swearing and drugs, but I did warn - this is going to be fairly dark. _

_Now all that remains is to beg for reviews and feedback and even love?_

_Bex_

_x x x x_

_P.S - Why can't I write short chapters? I started off so well and now it's back to 10'000. FML. _


	5. Chapter 5: It's Good to Talk

**-Chapter Five: It's Good to Talk-**

**John**

From hell indeed. This was the nightmare to end all bloody nightmares and not owing to the gruesome murders and ever encroaching doom of the final girl, but because I was literally standing by and watching my best friend disintegrate before my eyes. The mounting pressure to save the day, to be better than the best and be _himself_ again had won over his determination never to resort to such low measures. He had turned to the one thing he knew would help, despite the cost to himself. And what could I do? Nothing. I was useless, stupid John Watson. Unable to contribute in anything but the most menial of tasks. Unable to make Sherlock happy, even.

That would have been bad enough, honestly. That would have been stretching the limits of reasonable tolerance for anyone, right?

Apparently not. Right at the time when everyone needed him most, he had passed out in the middle of Scotland Yard. I had known it would come to this. I was a doctor after all, and it was clear to anyone that he was pushing himself too far, too fast. Why did this have to happen now?

And still, Sherlock was passed out on the floor.

I fell to my knees, caught in blind panic. Almost all of the panic was for his health, but a small cold part of me was terrified of letting the last girl die in such a horrible manner which I was certain she would without his help.

"Oh Jesus," I breathed, feeling his pulse. It was exceptionally fast, almost 120BPM. "Sherlock!" I called loudly and clearly. "_SHERLOCK_!"

No response, none but there was nothing to suggest he had genuinely fainted from exhaustion or fatigue, let alone illness. The more I looked him over, the less it seemed like he had passed out for any reason I could see. It was frightening that I couldn't understand what had made him pass out and a familiar, old terror crept over me at seeing him lying there on the floor, motionless.

_He's not dead. He's breathing, he has a pulse. He's alive. _

"Sherlock!" I yelled, shaking him gently, trying to keep my voice from cracking. "Wake up!"

His eyes bolted open and he came to life in a split second. Relief slammed into me but it was short lived – his eyes were glassy and expressionless like they had been before he'd passed out.

"Sherlock?" I asked tentatively. "Are you alright? How do you feel?"

He didn't respond, not even a little. I waved my hand in front of his face, but there was no reaction to it whatsoever.

A nasty sort of understanding was whispering at the back of my mind and I tried hard to ignore it. Yet his eyes were so vacant, like a puppet waiting for its strings to be pulled. With dread, I stopped asking questions and gave an order.

"Sherlock, stand up."

He stood immediately and fluidly, eerily echoing my thoughts of the puppet strings and the whisper turned to a scream in my mind. God-fucking-damn it all to hell, would we never catch a break? I had to tell someone - Lestrade. I put my head out of the door and feigned nonchalance.

"Uh, Greg?" I asked, making him look up from a map he'd been poring over. "Could I borrow you for a second?" I was almost shocked to hear how casual I sounded. He nodded distractedly and made his way into the office.

"Yeah? What is it? Haines is blowing a gasket down the hall, did you hear?" he asked, not seeming to notice anything strange about the way Sherlock was standing like a robot. Maybe it didn't seem all that different to how he usually stood. It wasn't as though he slouched, was it?

"We have a problem," I said closing the door. "Sherlock appears to be under whatever this...chemical hypnosis bullshit is."

Greg's face screwed up in half confusion, half weary smile in case I was joking. Then he looked at Sherlock and he groaned. "Oh are you _fucking_ kidding me? How?"

"Probably in the copious amounts of cocaine he's been injecting every few hours," I scowled, furious at myself for allowing any of this to happen. Goddamnit, he was _my_ responsibility!

Greg paled. "Christ almighty, this is all we fucking need!" He turned to me, stricken. "You've got to snap him out of it, John. We need him."

"Oh yes," I said with a sarcastic eye roll. "Just let me consult my _Dealing with Hypnotised Friends_ handbook! _You_ snap him out it!"

"At least try talking to him then, maybe we can gauge how bad it is and if it's wearing off." It sounded weak even to me, but what other choice did we really have?

I turned to my friend, whose face was so blank it was like he wasn't there at all.

"Sherlock," I said and got no reaction. "Can you hear me?" I went on, forcing away how terrifying his vacant expression was when those eyes were made to alight with deductions and curiosity.

"Yes," he said softly in a way I'd never heard him speak before. Childlike and trusting, entirely absent of the deep baritone I was used to. "I can hear you."

I nodded, thinking fast. "Alright, Sherlock. Tell me how you feel right now." Greg made an impatient noise behind me but I ignored him. "What are you feeling?"

"Calm," he said evenly. "Safe. A little cold."

"Why do you feel safe?" I started pacing.

He smiled slightly. "Because you're here. You keep me safe."

I laughed awkwardly, forcefully ignoring the warm feeling spreading through my chest. "Yes, I am here. Sherlock, we have to find Mary Kelly. We need to save her life, do you remember?"

"I remember."

"Good. Do you think you can help us find her?"

He frowned for a moment as if confused. "I don't know." That was the issue then – he couldn't _think_ for himself. Oh, wonderful.

"OK," I said as calmly as possible. "That's fine. Will you try to help _me_ find her?"

He relaxed. "Yes, I will. You're John. I love John."

I definitely felt my face burn. Greg coughed and shifted uncomfortably behind us.

"Yes," I said in the most natural voice I had. "I know."

* * *

**_November_**

_I never thought I would come to know a truth so life altering, that my subconscious would actually reject it. I'd been confronted with some serious sights and truths in my life, too. Afghanistan not even making the top spot. Yet I had always accepted these things. _

_My sister was an alcoholic. Not an alcoholic like you see on the TV, who after three weeks of rehab is cured forever. The kind that can only achieve months of success at a time before violently relapsing. The kind who would go so far as to steal our Mum's purse for money for a drink. The kind of person who would destroy a loving relationship for just one more taste of the thing that she could never resist. It had been a horrific ordeal and one our relationship had not really survived, but I accepted it. _

_My brain would not accept in any way, shape or form that Sherlock was alive. _

_The knowledge kept bouncing back, away from the part of me that accepts things. He was sitting in that hotel room, not twenty feet from where I was furiously pacing and yet...it couldn't be real. _

_Why? Because I had started to accept that he was dead. It was starting to become my reality, my updated version of life and if I let go of the acceptance that he was dead and then _somehow_ it turned out I was hallucinating in a mental institution somewhere and he was actually dead all along...I wouldn't survive. _

_Yes, that felt right. It was a survival mechanism. That and the fact that miracles don't happen. And especially not to me. _

_Mycroft was coming over, looking less smug and haughty than usual. I turned away defiantly, still vaguely furious with him in ways I couldn't articulate. _

"_John," he said softly. "He needs you."_

"_He's been fine without me for the last year and a half," I replied shortly. _

"_Did you see him?" asked Mycroft. I shrugged. "Then maybe you saw that he hasn't exactly been fine."_

_I didn't want to hear it. "He's got you, he doesn't need me."_

"_You're being incredibly obtuse, uncharacteristically so," he said in a voice I had only heard him use towards Sherlock. "You realise why he has done this, of course?"_

_I clenched my jaw. "Yes."_

_He nodded, eyes dull with understanding. "A fine reward indeed." _

"_Fuck you," I ground out. _

_A cold smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "I will respectfully decline. He'll be coming home with me tonight, so if you want to say goodbye now is the time."_

"_Home?"_

"_With me," he clarified. "To my house."_

"_That's not his home," I blurted out. _

"_221b is your home now, not his. Besides, he'll need a great deal of care following...this incident. I predict nothing less than a full relapse not long from now."_

_Unbidden, concern prickled at the back of my neck. "He wouldn't do that."_

_Mycroft gave me his most icy smile. "It is no longer your concern, as you have made abundantly clear to both myself and Sherlock. Now if you'll excuse me, I must arrange for his transport home."_

_He swept away, still absent of his usual grace. My fingertips were tingling and my mouth was dry. I was supposed to say goodbye? Again? To his face? What was the last thing I'd said to him before storming off? As if I could forget. _

"You're dead to me still."

_Before I quite knew what was happening, I was opening the door to his room and entering. He was fully dressed and sitting awkwardly in a chair, surrounded by newspapers. He looked up immediately as I came in and I tried to ignore the pained look sweeping across his face before it was smoothed away. _

_He looked back down, his shoulders hunched as though expecting some kind of physical pain. _

"_Yes?" he asked tightly. _

"_Mycroft said you're leaving tonight," I said, glancing around at the chaos the room had become in the few hours since I'd seen it last. There were pages of newspapers literally everywhere. The floors, wall and even ceiling all had random pages pinned to them. It looked almost like a botched wallpaper job. _

_He nodded, not looking up. "To his place in Kent. Very large, very dull. Mother will be staying with us for a while. Most of winter."_

_It was ridiculous that I was hearing his voice again. The voice I thought I would never again hear for the rest of my empty, meaningless life. But there it was. Baritone and steady. _

"_Right," I said stupidly. _

_He didn't say anything, he was waiting for me to get to the point of whatever my point was. _

"_Will it be...permanent?" I asked quietly. "With Mycroft?"_

_He shrugged and turned a page. _

"_What I mean is, Baker Street is yours. I should go and you should have it back."_

"_No."_

"_No? Why no? Why just a no?"_

"_I don't want it. It's yours."_

_I could feel anger blossoming in my chest. "No it's not, I can barely stand being there anyway so you can take it back now and I'll just get some place else!"_

_Another shrug. "There's no point."_

"_What? Why?"_

"_It's just a place."_

_I felt my restraint snap. "Just a place? JUST A PLACE? How dare you say that? Baker Street is NOT just a place! It's where we lived together, where we had amazing adventures together, where you played the violin until the arse crack of dawn! Where you kept severed limbs in the salad cooler! Where you showed me around and gave me a purpose and made me lose my fucking limp! It is not just a place, it's our fucking **home**!"_

_He was staring at me, alarmed and shocked. He seemed lost for words, and I could barely breathe for all the emotions choking me. His face softened a little. "It can't be that now."_

"_Why?" I demanded, furious now to the point that I was hearing a ringing noise in my ears. _

_He looked away. "Because of what I did. Everything is different now."_

_I moved closer, wanting him to just be **him** again; normal, emotionless Sherlock who wouldn't bother speaking to me with such a considerate, gentle tone. That voice was far too similar to the one he'd used the last time we spoke, right before..._

_Suppressing a shudder, I tried to force myself into being calm. "How did you do it anyway?"_

_He looked back, some of the trepidation gone. "A tennis ball."_

"_What?" I said, not understanding at all. "What does that mean?"_

_I could tell he was torn between being smug, letting me figure it out and telling me before I got angry again. I felt uncomfortable that he chose the latter. _

"_Misdirection, John," he told me. "I jumped, the truck was positioned in such a way that you never saw my supposed impact. I landed in the truck, cut my head and rolled onto the pavement. The rest was props and fake blood. And the tennis balls in my armpits. To stop the pulse."_

_I snorted. "No way."_

"_Why?"_

"_That's too simple! Even I thought of that a couple of times!"_

"_Sorry to let you down," he said quietly and my teeth ground together, hating his browbeaten attitude. _

"_No, I just mean...I thought with your grim obsession with bodies you would have at least stolen a body from the morgue, given it plastic surgery and then switched."_

_He shook his head. "It would have felt too cold. I had to still be warm. The biker I paid to knock you down was invaluable; you would have seen me breathing otherwise. The lack of pulse and your certainty that I'd landed hard seemed to do most of the work. Molly, too, was indispensable."_

"_So it really was you," I mused. "You were just faking it."_

"_It was the only way."_

_I nodded. "I know that. I don't know why you couldn't have told me."_

"_It had to be real. The onlookers weren't stupid. Even the smallest slip and you would have been dead."_

"_You could have found a way."_

"_I couldn't. It had to be real."_

"_It felt pretty fucking real, so well done."_

"_I am sorry."_

"_I watched you go into the ground. They covered you with dirt."_

"_I...I saw you once," he admitted very quietly, so much so that I wasn't certain he'd said it at all._

"_What? When?"_

_He was definitely nervous about telling me. "It was...you were at the...at my grave. You were telling me...things. I was watching you. I heard you."_

_I knew exactly what he was referring to. The time I had asked for one more miracle. _

_My eyes stung with hot, unwanted tears. Just the memory of saying that, of asking for the impossible and knowing I was still going back to an empty flat, an empty life. _

"_Why didn't you tell me then?"_

"_I wasn't done. There was still one last outpost and it was the biggest yet. I didn't think I'd...I thought it might be the last time I ever saw you."_

_My stomach felt like I'd taken a step off a high pavement without realising it. _

"_You thought you were going to die. You went there knowing there was a chance you'd die."_

_He tried to fashion his face into something coolly logical. "There's always a chance of death, just leaving your house in the morning and crossing the road is risking death."_

"_But this was a much bigger chance of death, wasn't it? Like percentage wise. What are we talking, Sherlock? Sixty, seventy percent? Come on, you would know every little detail about what you were walking into, right?"_

"_I estimated roughly a ninety five percent chance of capture and inevitable death. I had a plan to take them out with me, of course. I had several plans actually. They all backfired."_

"_Why even go, then?" I asked frowning. "Under the premise that you were wiping them out to make sure it was safe for me...if you knew you were going to fail, wouldn't that just alert them to the fact that you were alive, therefore placing me and everyone else in danger?"_

_He scowled slightly. "By that point, they already knew. I hadn't been as careful as I should have and they'd gotten wind of me. It wasn't precisely a suicide mission but there was very little chance of my coming out alive." He paused and cleared his throat. "I had to go, to keep the attention on me. Away from you."_

"_How long did they keep you captive?"_

_His face shuttered completely. "Four months," he said lightly. "Give or take."_

_I held my breath to stop myself asking what had happened during those four months and he seemed to appreciate it immensely. _

"_But," he said clapping his hands together and then wincing in pain. "I have once again defied all odds and remain somehow alive. After some months spent in utter limbo with Mycroft and Mummy I'm sure I'll be ready to face the world again. I read that my name was cleared. Perhaps Lestrade will throw me a bone."_

_He seemed to be carefully avoiding mentioning anything to do with me. My anger, so real and tangible minutes ago, now seemed impossibly childish and shameful. _

"_I don't want you to go," I said, apparently keeping in theme with acting like a child. "Mycroft will drive you crazy and he's not even a doctor."_

_He shrugged and threw the newspaper messily to the floor. "He'll hire plenty of them, I suppose. He's expecting me to relapse into a river of drugs any moment now."_

"_Will you?"_

"_Of course not! Do you really think so little of me, too?"_

_I felt, if possible, even worse. _

"_No, no! Of course not, I was just asking if you felt like you might."_

_He stood from the chair, as tall as ever, but without his careless grace. I could see the pain in every movement of his body, I was cataloguing it without knowing. Remembering which parts of his were injured so that when he came home with me, I could take proper care of him. _

"_You should come home," I said plainly. "You belong in Baker Street with...with everyone who loves you and cares about you."_

_He rose an eyebrow. "Did you just declare your undying love for me, John?"_

_I gave him a deadpan look. "Hardly. Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? Not exactly catch of the day."_

_He actually smiled a little. The relief that small smile gave me was indescribable. An impossible weight vanished from my shoulders and I felt so ridiculously happy, I could have cried. I didn't, though. I would save that for later, when I was alone. _

"_You should be only so lucky, John," he whipped right back. "I don't know another person on this planet who can put up with looking at those sweaters all day, every day."_

* * *

_**December**_

_It was my favourite time of year. I loved the build up to Christmas, the glow and attraction from childhood had never faded. If anything, it intensified once I realised I could have my own kind of stress free Christmas away from family, if I wanted. I loved the music, the decorations. Everything. _

_Or at least, I had used to love it. The last few were spent alone, dismally tainted by that memory of one wonderful Christmas spent with Sherlock. This year was shaping up to be almost as bad as the last. Such a selfish thought, when my best friend was sitting in a corner of the living room, his knees hitched close and tight to his chest, occasionally banging his head against the wall. _

_I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to imbue myself with some long lost strength. He had been doing this for nearly eighteen hours now and I had been present for most of it. It cemented my unwanted belief that he had indeed reverted back to old, bad habits. I had tried so hard to convince myself that it wasn't true; in all the time I had know him, he'd never crossed that line. It had always been the thing I dreaded most, that one day his boredom would get the better of him and he would turn to something else to stimulate his brain and soul. _

_I had yet to intervene because I honestly had no real idea of where to begin and then what to do after that. And after that. It seemed obvious that I should call Mycroft, who would certainly know what to do, but I didn't want to do that and I was positive that Sherlock wouldn't want me to do that. He would doubtlessly consider it base treachery of some kind._

_Which left me to figure out what to do, entirely alone. _

_He looked terrible. It had been starting to show for a while now. After he returned home from up North, he hadn't slept much, hardly ate and seemed to be growing more and more distant. He was deathly pale, his eyes stained with bruises of exhaustion and some kind of inner turmoil that would soon be outer too. Now this. I should have seen it, bloody hindsight being 20/20 and all. I should have known, been more alert for signs. _

_I sighed, steeling myself. "Sherlock?" I said, the first word I'd spoken in almost a day. It sounded very loud. "Sherlock?"_

_He blinked slowly and turned to me, only just realising I was there. _

"_John," he said very quietly. "What are you doing here?"_

_I chuckled. "I live here, idiot."_

"_You should be working, shouldn't you?" he queried glancing around for clues to help him figure out what day it was. When he found nothing, he turned back to me for confirmation. _

"_I've quit," I told him briskly. "I called them earlier."_

"_Ah," he said, looking away. _

_I waited for him to add something, but he did not. "Ah?" I echoed. _

"_Ah, you've resigned your post because you're planning to stay with me and help me get clean and you don't know how long it will take."_

"_Yep, that's more or less right."_

_He closed his eyes. "I know this situation calls for me to insist that I don't need help, that I'm fine and can cope alone but truly...I need your help, I know it. I can't fall into this again, despite...everything. I need you, John. I will not be able to do this without you."_

"_You won't have to. I'm here. I'm always here."_

"_It's going to be horrible."_

"_I know."_

"_I'm going to be more awful than usual."_

"_I'll cope."_

"_I'm going to change my mind and try to get more drugs; I'm clever, I'll succeed."_

"_I'll get a taser."_

_He grinned, eyes still closed. "A tad extreme, no?"_

"_Don't make me use it then."_

"_I will, though. I can feel the need rising already. I'm going to deny everything soon, pretend that I'm fine and don't need your help. I'm sneaky, John. Don't trust me."_

"_I trust you, but I won't be fooled by you."_

_He finally seemed satisfied. "Alright then. I apologise in advance. Thank you, John"_

"_Accepted and you're welcome."_

_I wanted to say more, but he was starting to shake again and I knew it signalled the end of such a lucid conversation. I had to start somewhere; it might as well be getting him a blanket. The selfish thought returned again; this was going to be the worst Christmas ever._

* * *

The more I watched his behaviour, the more is seemed like extreme suggestibility than anything else. For all his theories on chemical hypnotism, it didn't ring quite true. But then what did I know? He was the genius after all.

The situation was starting to seem hopeless. Haines was going crazy at the unspoken accusation the video provided; he was ranting about conspiracy and dissension in the ranks. His first port of call was to come and accuse Sherlock of vying for position through Machiavellian tactics. I'd almost had a heart attack when I heard him coming, knowing immediately that Sherlock would stupidly agree to whatever he was accused of.

I had turned to Sherlock, made him look at me and said in a firm voice, "No matter what you hear or what anyone else says, don't say a single word until _I_ tell you to. Answer to no-one but me, Sherlock." He nodded avidly, eyes oddly alight. "Promise me," I'd insisted.

"I promise," he swore fervently.

"Good, now be quiet until I tell you otherwise."

Somehow, _somehow_, we had managed to avoid utter disaster throughout the entire ordeal and Haines had left red faced and on the verge of cardiac arrest. Sherlock hadn't said a single word the entire time.

Now it was hours later, we still hadn't heard anything back from the chemical sources and though I'd tried to imitate Sherlock's way of texting, we had yet to get a single reply from the homeless network.

Hopeless was a fairly accurate assessment of the situation.

What Sherlock had been dosed with did not seem to be wearing off in the slightest. I kept checking, all the while asking him what he thought about various plans. I'd tried ordering him to simply _be himself _and solve the case, but it hadn't worked. He kept turning back to me, hesitant and confused, utterly unsure of himself and what to do. I wanted to pull him into my arms and reassure him that it was alright, he was doing well, even though he wasn't. Seeing him so vulnerable was shocking and honestly I was unprepared for it. Even at his worst and weakest, he had been scathing and witty to say the least; ashamed of the weakness and doing all he could to detract from it. Now he was stripped of all his armour, his defences. He was like a child.

"He seems fine," Lestrade said after a few minutes of loaded, tense silence. "We should just go now, by the time we get there he'll be a hundred percent I reckon."

"How would either of us know that? He doesn't seem any different to me and there's no real way to tell anyway."

Greg looked contemplative. "Let's ask him something."

"What?" I said, distractedly. I had been looking at the most recent maps of chemical compound factories.

"Like a secret. Something he wouldn't want to tell us and so would fight against it. It might bring him out of it."

"You want Sherlock Holmes to tell you a secret?" I said dryly. "Well, that'll be something to put in your diary while you braid your hair."

"Sherlock," Greg said, almost commandingly. Sherlock looked up, mildly alarmed. "Tell us a secret."

Immediately, his eyes flickered to me asking for permission. I nodded and smiled, turning to warn Greg not to ask anything too embarrassing, but he was already speaking.

"Tell us your deepest darkest secret, something you'd never normally tell anyone."

The conflict was obvious in his face, maybe Greg was right. But then he opened his mouth like he couldn't control it. The pain in his eyes was astonishing and suddenly I knew with a sick understanding exactly what he was about to say; something I had long been denying, keeping locked away in a dark recess of my mind.

"No!" I yelled. "Stop, don't say anything!"

Sherlock flinched, but was silent and gave me a small, grateful smile.

"What the hell?"

"You're right," I said, slamming the folder abruptly. "We should go now, chances are by the time we get anywhere of importance he'll be a bit better."

Greg gave me a funny look, but went off to alert everyone that we had seven potential locations to check.

"Thank you, John" Sherlock said softly. "You always look after me."

The ringing in my ears was back and my finger tips were numb. Shakily, I said, "You're welcome, let's go."

* * *

The locations were a bust as far as I could tell. It was incredibly frustrating to know that we could easily be missing things because we didn't have a 100% Sherlock on board. I tried thinking like him; trying to notice each little detail and microscopic clue, but it all seemed completely run of the mill to me. If he was improving, it was slow. Too slow.

Donovan was being extremely careful around Sherlock and this annoyed me intensely. I knew that she knew he was under this chemical hypnosis stuff and was therefore trying to be respectful of his personal boundaries; but it was grating on me. It was like she was making an effort to be nice and the only way she could be nice, was to be careful.

There was also the very trivial but very distracting fact that the command I'd given Sherlock earlier seemed to have translated to him as, '_John is in charge of EVERYTHING'_ . Donovan asked if Sherlock wanted some water when he looked particularly faint and instead of saying yes or no, he turned to me expectantly awaiting an answer. I had to say yes for him.

This happened with everything else. He turned to me for permission to do anything, even speak. It was beyond embarrassing and there was no way I could explain it.

The sixth location seemed to me to be as useless and disappointing as the last. Nothing shouted out to me like it would to Sherlock. Greg received a call from the lab informing him of a paper cup which seemed to contain the chemicals we were looking for.

"Right, do me a favour," he said impatiently. "Text me the list instead of expecting me to be able to remember all that, OK? Thanks." He hung up and came over to me. "All kinds of chemicals I've never heard of. They're going to send me a list." Then he pointedly looked at Sherlock and asked, "Any progress?"

I felt irrationally protective of Sherlock. "Yes," I said defensively. "He's doing well."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm doing well."

Greg stifled an eye roll. "He needs to do better."

Sherlock frowned, looking sad. "I need to do better."

"No, Sherlock. You're doing really well," I corrected sternly. "Let me see the list when you get it," I told Greg. "I might know some of them."

Greg had been right to request a written list of the chemical components.

Midazolam, temazepam, flunitrazepam, scopolamine, sodium thiopental, several traces of barbiturates and a couple of others I'd never heard of. A cocktail mix of truth serum and suggestibility increasing drugs. Sherlock had been spot on, of course.

"OK," I said, trying to think. "So Sherlock said that _this_ is the clue. This drug, these components. This is what will lead us to the last Mary Kelly."

Donovan raised her hand rather timidly. "Uh, how?"

I exhaled forcefully. "Damned if I know. Sherlock, look at this list of chemicals for me."

Sherlock had been glancing around, quite happily, his lips moving silently; he seemed to be cataloguing things. When I spoke to him, to turned, still muttering things under his breath. He looked enquiringly at me.

"Here, Sherlock," I said, ignoring the looks people were giving me. He hurried over obediently. "This list," I said showing him the message. "Is the list of chemicals in the drug that you and all the other girls have been given. You said this was this was the clue. Look at it and try to see if anything stands out, please."

He adopted a look of great concentration that I prayed was not for show.

"Hmm," he said after a minute, tilting his head slightly. "Scopolamine."

My heart leapt. "Yes? What about it?"

"It's shouting at me," he said. "All the others are blue, but scopolamine is pink."

Greg let out a groan. I glared at him and turned back to Sherlock.

"Why is scopolamine pink?"

"It doesn't belong. It's not blue."

"And the other components are blue? So, pink means something special?"

He nodded. "Huh," I said, suddenly fascinated by such a tiny insight into how he saw things.

"Huh, what?" Greg asked impatiently.

"Synaesthesia," I said, vaguely. "It never even crossed my mind. Anyway, Sherlock. Why weren't you expecting scopolamine?"

"It's unusual. Strong. New."

He was now frowning quite intensely, as though trying to reach some distant piece of knowledge he had once had at his fingertips. He put his hand to his eyes.

"It's a drug...people call it Devil's Breath. It's used in many different ways. I think...people blow it your face and lead you away like a child. You don't object. You don't remember."

I nodded. "Right, that sounds exactly like what we'd expect in this scenario. Why is it pink?"

He looked at me, just a small glint of his old sharpness back in his eyes. "Why the need for everything else? Why the need for sodium thiopental? The scopolamine would work just fine without everything else."

Donovan piped up, "The truth serum?"

"Yes. Why bother with that?"

"Maybe they knew something important," she suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. "They were chosen for their names and nothing else. I think."

"It might have been important to them, not him," Greg said thoughtfully.

"Weren't the original Jack the Ripper victims killed because they knew some secret that would destroy the Monarchy or something?" asked Donovan.

"That was the film," I ground out angrily. "The _fictional_ version."

Sherlock froze. "Wait," he said abruptly. We all froze too, afraid that any movement would disrupt his brain waves. "Secrets...Lestrade asked me a secret."

Greg looked flustered. "It was a test, to see if you were yourself!"

"You asked me a secret because you knew I would have no choice but to tell you."

"It wasn't like that!"

Sherlock ignored him. I watched him carefully, noting how quickly he seemed to be recovering. It had to be too good to be true. "The original victims were all missing things; teeth, organs. He _took_ things and kept them, every time. Nothing was missing from any of the girls we found, were they?"

"No," I said slowly. "They were intact. Aside from the ways in which they were killed, of course."

"So maybe he took their truths, their secrets," Sherlock said quietly. "Things they would never tell anyone unless under the influence of this compound."

"That's why he kept them so long," I guessed aloud. "He was questioning them. But why? The girls were chosen because of their names, as you said. They collectively couldn't know anything of significance, could they?"

"It depends on what you think is significant," Sherlock said, still frowning and looking around. He _seemed_ to be improving so much, but I didn't dare get my hopes up. "The secrets might have had some impact on where they were found, or kept perhaps."

"Most of them were found in alleyways," Greg said. "But the kept locations were arbitrary, right? You think each location was tailored to a secret of theirs?"

"We'll never know," I said. "Their secrets died with them."

"Not all of them," Sherlock countered. "Get in contact with the survivors immediately and ask if where they were kept holds any significance to them."

I moved closer to Sherlock, seeing the flaw in this plan. "But we don't know who this girl is. There's no way of knowing what her secret is and where to find her."

A slow, unpleasant kind of understanding crept over his face and I was frightened to ask what exactly it was he just he had just realised.

"It's not her secret that will lead us to her," he said in barely a whisper. "It's _mine_."

* * *

**_January_**

_In my increasing desperation and borderline insanity, I had reached the limits of what I could do with a terrifyingly irritable and scathing Sherlock who was locked in here with me while I did everything I could to keep him clean. _

_He was beyond bored, beyond needing a distraction. I did the only thing I could think to do. _

_I bought him an Xbox 360 and after asking the clerk what the most difficult, complex, time consuming games were, a ton of those too. _

_Realistically, I had no hope. He was going to sneer, call me pathetic and start peeling wallpaper with his fingernails again. Regardless, I pushed on. I set it up, connected it and put on something called Skyrim. _

"_SHERLOCK!" I almost roared. "Get in here!"_

_He came stalking in, looking violently resentful. He caught sight of the Xbox and gave me the predicted sneer. _

"_You must have a wonderful sense of humour."_

_I marched over to him, half wanting to punch him in the face. Instead, I thrust the controller in his hand. _

"_Play it, or I'll taser you."_

_He blanched. "How long for?"_

"_An hour at least, if you don't like it – fine. I tried. Just please, give it a chance."_

_He gave me an evil glare, but slunk over to the sofa and sat down insolently. _

"_Do you need to read the control instructions?" I called back from the kitchen after a moment's thought, but he was already _doing things_. His character was sitting in some cart for the moment, but he didn't look confused or anything so I made two cups of tea and took pleasure in the few minutes silence. I felt like how mothers must feel with a baby that won't stop screaming. I dawdled purposefully with the tea, but eventually took him his, fully expecting to have the controller hurled at my head. _

_He seemed fairly...entertained, at least. He was sitting still which was miracle enough for me. I placed his tea on the small table by the sofa and sat in the chair. _

"_There was a dragon," he informed me. "I want to find it."_

"_Go nuts," I said, feeling like I could cry. "The clerk told me you can do anything in this game."_

"_Hmm," he said and I heard the small "_challenge accepted_" it denoted. _

"_Do you want to carry on then?" I asked tentatively. _

_He glanced in my direction very briefly. "Maybe. It requires further investigation."_

"_Great, well. Good," I said. "While you're doing that I'm going to have a shower and try not to fall asleep and drown in it."_

"_You should sleep, John," he said, sounding ridiculously calm all of a sudden. "I'll be fine."_

_I gave him a sad smile. "I'd love to. But you'll be out of the door before my eyes shut."_

"_Ah," he said, absently. "Probably. Sorry about that."_

_He was still fiddling with the controls and staring unblinkingly at the screen. I was amazed. _

"_I'm going to leave the door open while I shower," I warned him. "No tricks."_

"_No tricks," he said. "But John, promise me that this-" he indicated to the screen. "Is our secret. You won't tell anyone."_

_I grinned. "Your secret is safe with me."_

* * *

"That," Greg snorted. "Is the most far fetched load of crap I've ever heard!"

He had been watching on the sidelines throughout the whole exchange and had now apparently decided to voice an opinion. Furiously, I whirled around on him.

"Fantastic, then!" I snapped and he stepped back, alarmed by my intensity. "We'll just back off and let you implement _your_ amazing plan to save the day!"

He had the decency to look embarrassed. "I just mean...you've come to this conclusion in the space of ten seconds and made a humongous amount of leaps to get there. Not everything is a riddle, you know."

"I'm still waiting for your brilliant scheme, _Inspector_."

Defeated, he sighed, "I don't have one. Do what you need to, anything's worth a try."

I turned away from him, pushing down the sick feeling of anticipation. Sherlock looked almost completely himself and for the first time since he'd passed out earlier, I was disappointed. This would have been so much easier if he was still drugged. I could have _forced_ him to tell me and he might not even have remembered it.

He seemed to have no problem remembering what we'd just said though, in fact he seemed to have read my mind very clearly.

"The amnesia won't take effect unless one sleeps while it wears off. Bad luck."

He sounded cold and hostile in the extreme. I was reminded of his behaviour in Dartmoor. He only ever acted like this when genuinely threatened.

"How certain are you that this is correct?" I asked matter of factly.

"Ninety seven percent," he replied darkly, but honestly. "It has all the poetic irony that would have made Moriarty dance with joy. I'm starting to think his inspiration for such scenarios might have originated elsewhere, from a certain right hand man."

"I know," I said. "But we agreed not to say anything until we have proof. Until this is over."

He shrugged. "We could just hunt him down and kill him."

I tightened my fists. "But that won't help us find the last girl."

"John," he said in a low voice. "I can't. Please, don't make me."

"I wish I could make you," I sighed. "It would be easier."

"Let's be rational," he said in a slightly trembling voice. "We're talking about a location, right?" I nodded, hesitantly. "I was only held in two places. One was a four and half hour drive from here and the other was somewhere local."

"Great," I said. "Where?"

He scowled. "I was blindfolded, but there were hints. Smells, sounds. I just need five or six minutes to figure it out. I _can_ figure it out, now that I know what this has been about."

Sherlock sounded so desperate, so hopeful...I was at a loss to do anything but allow him his way. Even although I felt it, bone deep, that there was a reason we had this compound, this clue, I couldn't make him do it. Especially not here, in front of dozens of officers and strangers. The memory of those ingredients loomed in my mind, though. All fairly simple to get hold of in the lab at Bart's. If Sherlock's PTSD couldn't be combated with therapy and talking, then maybe just _maybe_ I could make him talk.

But even the thought of it was enough to make me feel revolted at the idea of such a betrayal of his trust.

This was the punchline to this whole thing, of course. All about Sherlock, once again. Whoever had given him this drug has expected us to get to this junction a lot quicker than we did, expecting me to use the drug to force the full truth from him. I was so sick of life picking on him. He was so undeserving of all this crap.

He came over, looking slightly more triumphant. He gave me a real, very small smile; gratitude, I knew, for not forcing him as was intended by our great puppet master.

"There's a place in London, in Cheapside I am certain. It's an abandoned factory, and I speculate somewhere near Christopher Street."

"Are you sure?" Greg asked uncertainly. He looked over to me, as though asking whether or not Sherlock should be taken seriously. I nodded fiercely and then he told everyone to get over to Christopher Street in Cheapside.

Sherlock turned back to me, eyes bright and hopeful. "This will work," he said. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

The day was starting to bleed into the night by the time it was determined that the area was secure and as bomb free as possible. Small groups started to trickle into the huge, seemingly empty building. There was the most enormous amount of tension in the air, palpable and evident in the faces of everyone. We all wanted to find her.

But when we did find her, I immediately wished we hadn't.

It wasn't that she was dead. She was clearly alive, breathing and moaning incoherently for help. It was the room that made me feel like the bottom of my stomach had fallen out.

There were polaroid pictures stuck all over each of the four walls. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Each one was of a pale, dark haired man blindfolded and gagged. Each picture depicted something awful and brutal. I didn't need to look closely to know who it was.

The girl herself was naked, blindfolded and ball gagged. She was tied down to a huge metal slab with thick, black cable ties. She was beaten savagely, burned and cut in places. I could tell immediately that she had been assaulted. She reminded me of when Sherlock had come stumbling out of the cab up North. Paramedics were working on her, deciding if she could be moved.

Painted neatly on the walls in bright pink paint were the words, "IT'S GOOD TO TALK."

Sherlock was staring up at the words, stock still. I couldn't tell what everyone else was doing, running around in a blur of urgent sound. He didn't seem to see any of it, nothing except the message left for him.

"He seems to be back to normal," Greg said to me after a few minutes. "Could you maybe get him to look around for clues? Anything?"

Of course. We were at a crime scene.

"Yeah," I said hoarsely. "Sure."

He still hadn't moved when I approached him. "Sherlock? Do you want to take a look around? Find something to help them catch this bastard."

"I don't need to," he said quietly. "I've seen this before."

I wasn't entirely certain he had actually _seen_ the pictures that Donovan and some of the others were taking down as quickly as they could. He only seemed to see the painted words.

"Sherlock," I said forcing my voice into something strong. "You did it. You saved her, you beat him. It was all because of you." He said nothing. "Sherlock, you..."

"I know, John," he said implacably. "I saw the pictures. Everyone saw the pictures. I don't doubt one of two will make tomorrow's edition of The Sun."

Very loudly, I said, "I will murder anyone who even thinks about doing that."

"It doesn't matter," he said calmly. "It's irrelevant."

"Why?" I asked.

He turned to look at me finally and I saw to my absolute shock, that two tears had rolled down his face. Not the fake kind he was so good at pouring. The real kind.

"Because I'm done now. This it is. I am finished."

* * *

The media was still buzzing about it the next day and would continue to do so I expected for a while. The fact that the killer or killers remained at large meant that despite our efforts, the case remained open and unsolved. I was surprised to observe the lack of mentions of Sherlock aside from stating that he had assisted within an official capacity. I felt, more than knew, that Greg had been instrumental in ensuring nothing whatsoever leaked about Sherlock or the pictures.

Sherlock had been utterly calm and reasonable all of today. Yesterday he had gone straight to bed and, I assumed, slept through the night. This morning I had almost had a heart attack when I saw he had made tea and toast and that it was on a most uncluttered, clean table; free of experiments and unpleasantries.

"Morning," I said, very high pitched. "You...you made breakfast."

He was reading the paper, fully dressed and showered. He looked up and smiled without actually smiling at all. "Don't die of shock."

I saw down, pulling the plate of admittedly lukewarm toast towards me. "I wasn't," I lied weakly. "It's just I hope this isn't one of your experiments and there's something nasty in my tea."

His _Not Smile_ vanished. "I would never drug you with anything, John," he said seriously and I felt like smacking myself in the face. Great start, John.

"So," I said after a few refreshing gulps of hot tea. "How are you feeling?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"The drugs," I said bluntly.

He turned the page. "Fine," he said. "A little sick, very itchy, but nowhere near as bad as last time."

He was saying so many words, at such an early hour that I really didn't want to press for more to see if he was lying. He really didn't _look_ that terrible and so for now, I decided the best way to diagnose him would be to spend time with him.

"There was a message on the machine for you," he added, drinking his tea.

"For me? Who from?"

"Lestrade," he told me. "Wanted you to come in for something."

And there it was, the thing I'd been hoping was a spur of the moment kind of announcement that meant nothing.

"What about you?" I asked casually. "Too tired?"

"I'm not tired," he said, folding the paper and placing it on the table. "I told you. I'm done."

I had no idea what to say except, "Why?"

When he looked at me fully, I could see that my assumption that he'd slept had been wrong.

"Because I have nothing left to give without resorting to drug use or severe mental breakdown. I have given everything of myself I can physically give and then some. I have lost...much in the pursuit of making the world a better place. I can give no more."

I sat back, crossing my arms. "So what are you going to do then?"

"I'm going to _not_ go to Scotland Yard with you to get dragged into yet _another_ series of crimes that the ever inept police force of this country cannot solve without help."

"Won't you be bored?"

He laughed bitterly. "Bored? I'll take boredom over _that_ any day of the week."

It was so unlike him, so out of character. I had never seen him like this, never. It wasn't even the PTSD – it was exactly as he had said. He had given enough, lost enough and now he was sick of it.

"But I'm pretty sure Lestrade won't want me there without you," I said feebly.

He finished his tea and winced. "You make much better tea," he admitted. "You're a Doctor, John. You're far more qualified than I am."

* * *

By the time I got to Scotland Yard, I had worked myself up quite sufficiently. It was all Greg Lestrade's fault, I'd decided. He was always asking too much of Sherlock, without thinking what it might cost him ultimately. And now the very day after we had helped him find the last girl, he was calling us in again for more.

Sally Donovan stopped me in corridor on my way to Greg's office. "Yes?" I asked impatiently.

"I just wanted you to know," she said looking uncomfortable in the extreme. "I made sure every picture was destroyed. Each one was accounted for."

My righteous anger ebbed slightly. "Oh, well. Thanks for that."

She nodded, saying nothing else and went on her way leaving me to continue on mine.

I fairly burst into Greg's office, a speech on the tip of my tongue when I saw that there was someone sitting at his desk, in his chair. The woman from yesterday. The Mary Kelly finale.

She was dressed in what appeared to be loose, comfortable clothing but certainly not hospital clothes. She was cradling a styrofoam cup of tea with bandaged fingers and she looked, quite honestly terrible. Her face was bruised all over, her left eye puffy and swollen.

"What...?" I asked, at a loss for words. She looked up at me with a half smile, blowing the surface of her tea. I noticed that Greg was in the room for the first time, he gave me an apologetic look as he stood by his large filing cabinet.

"John," he said. "I'd like you to officially meet Mary Morstan. She has, uh, requested this meeting with you and Sherlock but I see he couldn't make it."

"He's very erm, busy," I said distractedly. "Sorry, your last name is Morstan?"

She laughed softly. "Yes, everyone else was confused too. My middle name is Kelly. I'm sure there were only limited people with that name at hand. Certainly none silly enough to be still in England at the time. He made do with what he could, apparently."

"Ah. Right. Well. I see." I grimaced inwardly at myself, but it was a rather tremendously uncomfortable situation. I could envisage Sherlock doing an about turn had he accompanied me here to be greeted by this. "It's nice to meet you properly."

She was rather slight, petite to say the least and the sheer amount of bruises all over every part of her visible skin made her seem to me like she might break is she moved too suddenly. Her blonde hair was clean of the blood I had seen it soaked in only yesterday.

"As DI Lestrade said," she went on sipping her tea. "I requested to meet you and Mr Holmes, to thank you both for saving me."

_'Not soon enough,'_ I thought miserably. "You're quite welcome," I said. "But the credit is hardly mine. Sherlock was the one who...well, who was instrumental in assisting the police as much he could. I was just there for..." I trailed off, unable to verbalise exactly what I _had_ been there for other than to keep an eye on Sherlock. God, I really needed a job.

"I was hoping to meet Mr Holmes," she said enquiringly.

"Yes," I told her awkwardly. "He's really under the weather at the moment. I'm sure he would have loved to meet you, though."

She gave me wry smile. "He's busy being ill?"

That sounded fairly accurate, actually. I shrugged with what I hoped was a boyish grin, but instead I suspected looked more like a queasy grimace. "More or less."

She placed the tea down. "Well, he saved me life so he can do anything he wants as far as I'm concerned. Please give him all my thanks and please, John, accept mine direct to you."

I moved closer. "If you don't mind my asking, why aren't you in hospital?"

Mary looked a little put off. "I can't stand them. I was actually in a hospital when I was taken, I'd been there for months." She cleared her throat and looked down. "My father was dying. He passed while I was being held."

I felt awful for her, of all the things to happen while she was enduring _that_. "I'm so sorry," I said, meaning it. "But if you require medical attention, maybe it's for the best."

"I have private doctors and they will attend to me at my home. Up until last week I had nothing. Forty nine pounds in my bank account. Today I find out that my father left me thirteen million."

"Uh, wow," I said lamely, unsure of what to say to such a thing.

"Yes," she said with mild distaste. "I only knew him for a few months, he spent most of his life in India. He returned with very advanced cancer. We had very little time together and almost all of it was spent in hospitals."

There was a beat of silence during which I suddenly remembered Greg was still in the room, watching me quite intently. I looked at him, hoping he was going to say something to give me some clue as to what my role was here.

"Miss Morstan believes there may have been foul play somewhere along the line," he said catching on, but still watching me very carefully. "She and I were wondering if, after a while, perhaps Sherlock and yourself wouldn't mind giving the situation a once over."

I wanted to agree immediately, but the tightening in my gut reminded me of why I came here so angry in the first place.

"Yeah, about that," I said cautiously. "Sherlock isn't up to doing anything right now."

Greg looked concerned. "How long do you think...?" he left the question open ended, so as not to give the game away in front of Mary.

"It's not that," I said rather bluntly. "He's...well he told me he's not doing it anymore."

Greg pushed away from the filing cabinets. "What?"

I shrugged again. "That's what he told me."

"B-but he can't just _stop!_"

I glared at Greg. "I'm pretty sure he can."

While Greg seemed to be utterly flabbergasted at the news I'd broken, Mary Morstan caught my eye and gave me yet another sweet, faint smile.

"I'm sorry to hear that there are...problems," she said diplomatically. "Everyone has limits."

"Apparently so," I said rather gloomily myself. "But I'll tell him what you said. I'm sure he'll be pleased."

She stood up from the chair, rather awkwardly, displaying how much pain she was genuinely in. "Well, if you'd like to come round one day and have tea or, I don't know – help me decide what millionaires are supposed to buy, I'd be grateful for the company." She handed me a piece of paper which, when I read it, had her name and number written out on it. "Any time."

"Thanks," I said and it came out a lot higher than I'd hoped. I coughed and tried to bring it back down to a manly, gruff level. "I'll definitely do that. It'd be nice to have some company, other company."

She left the office and I was forced to turn back to a still spluttering Greg.

"But he can't just stop!" he repeated. "What is he going to do?"

"I have no bloody idea," I sighed. "Look, hopefully it's just some temporary mood swing that'll pass once things are stable again."

That seemed to calm him down a bit, enough that I felt I could leave with calling a ambulance at least. I realised I had completely forgotten to lay him out with my righteous indignation and fury on Sherlock's behalf. The time had come and gone now and all the way home, all I could think of was Mary's half smile.

* * *

_Author's Notes: Again, sincerest apologies for the lateness. I suck. Life currently sucks. Stupid life took priority. _

_Anyway, I'm sorry if this reads rushed or choppy. It was re-written here and there, but from here on out it should be much smoother. _

_The chemicals mentioned are all real and thoroughly researched but if there are mistakes, please forgive me. _

_I really hope you're still enjoying it and please don't be put off by Mary's appearance. This is ULTIMATELY Johnlock, I swear it. _

_Feedback and reviews are oxygen. _

_Bex_

_x x x x_


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